


a million tiny little things

by foxbones



Series: a million tiny little things [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Nanny AU, RomCom AU, is nanny au a thing? it is now, reupload, romcom tropes, the romcom au to end all romcom aus, tropely tropefest of tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:52:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 73,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxbones/pseuds/foxbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>emma swan doesn’t seem like the kind of person you’d leave in charge of your kids, but somehow she’s landed the job of nannying the mayor’s son. no matter her rebellious streak, she’s more than a little concerned that she’s breaking the cardinal rule of nannydom: do not, <i>do not</i>, start sleeping with your employer. </p><p>swan queen romcom au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which the main characters have the necessary meet-cute

**Author's Note:**

> sure, it’s technically a world without magic or storybrooke or the storyline of the show. but that doesn’t mean that i didn’t gleefully insert disney references into every millimeter of this story. if a minor character’s name seems familiar, that’s because it is. why the ouat people who have the power to make literally everything a disney reference do not do so continues to boggle my little mind.
> 
> some important things about this universe:  
> \- this is a tribute to all my favorite romantic comedies, specifically the work of nora ephron, so it’s a very “romantic comedy” setting that plays with romcom tropes all willy-nilly. if you’re with it then you’ll get it etc  
> \- storybrooke is brooke city in this universe, more of a coastal new england metropolis than small town maine. it is populated by disney characters, but since disney is mostly full of white people, so is brooke city, and that’s a whole thing. if you didn’t think i’d be tackling race in some way then hahahahaha  
> \- emma is not the child of snow & charming, there are none of the weird familial connections of the show because a) they’re dumb and b) they really don’t work in a romcom universe. mary margaret is her roommate, she is not emma’s mom, emma never had henry, henry is not emma’s biological son, etc  
> \- there is no magic but it’s fine because lesbianism is a magic all its own amirite

 

 

 

 

 _well, it was a million tiny little things that when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together, and i knew it. i knew it the very first time i touched her. it was like coming home, only to no home I'd ever known. i was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and i knew. it was like magic._  
\- sleepless in seattle, nora ephron

 

 

 

 

She was not supposed to be a nanny, or a babysitter, or a person put in charge of children at all. That was never part of Emma Swan’s plan. Not that plans have ever been her strong suit.

 

 

 

 

Exhibit A: The crayon drawings from her childhood, the years before she was being yanked out of foster homes on the regular and threatened with juvie. That was when she wanted to join the police academy, to wear a badge and save the day and always fight the bad guys. The line between the bad guys and the good guys seemed clean cut to 8 year old Emma. Bad guys must have been the reason her mother had given her up as a baby. And good guys? Emma was the good guy, she just knew it. If she wasn’t the good guy, why would she be so good at cops and robbers? She was the first one to stand up for whoever was being picked on at the home. She was the last one to give up in a game of chase. Everyone told her she was a good girl, and she’d beam up at them, ready to prove it.

 

 

Exhibit B: The high school diploma she just barely acquired, and she doesn’t even know where it is now. Might be crumpled up in the attic of one of those foster homes she only saw for a month or two, might be in a landfill in Rhode Island. By fifteen, Emma was convinced that all cops are bastards, and she had a patch on her denim vest to prove it. She and a crust punk who called herself Tramp spent most of their time trying to acquire fake I.D.s and giving each other stick and pokes. Tramp had a tattoo on her wrist that said “Lady” in thin cursive, a reminder of what she used to be, or so Tramp claimed. Tramp liked to talk a good game about not forgetting where you came from. Seemed to believe that you needed to look your past square in the eye so you could spit in its face if you wanted. Tramp seemed to spit at a lot of rich folks, and a whole lot of cops. The two of them spraypainted “Fuck the police” on the basketball court, an act that got Emma kicked out of her final foster home and left her to spend the last year of being a minor sleeping on the streets and a few ratty couches. Every time a cop kicked her awake or made her empty her pockets, Emma told herself that she was never going to be like them. Not that they’d let her, she’d think, since everyone kept reminding her of what a bad kid she was. There was one time she wrote “fuck the good guys” across the water tower of her old building, and something about it made her feel right. Tramp had given her a high five, and so had that new kid Jim, the one with the ponytail and the earring and the busted longboard. She’d almost made out with Jim that night, but Tramp was a better kisser.

 

 

Exhibit C: Her business card, the one she carries around in her ancient Mickey Mouse wallet and still can’t entirely believe exists. It has her name on it. _Her name_ , hers, the name of someone who’s been banned from every Chili’s in the continental United States after she and another kid set a fire in the ladies’ restroom. Granted it was one of the rare fires she’s set that was completely accidental, but going from face on file at the Chili’s Corporate Headquarters to having her own business card seems like the least likely outcome of Emma Swan’s life. It’s progress, maybe, or proof that someone is crazy enough to put her name on something official in a positive way. The business card is standard for all the employees at Fit Royale, the upscale spa and fitness complex where she teaches self-defense classes to trophy wives and spends too much time lifting weights instead of processing her problems. Sometimes she tells herself that it’s not much, at least in comparison to all the other people her age who have college degrees, aren’t paying rent in pizza half the time or sleeping in until three on their days off, but she’s proud of that little card. She’d frame it and hang it over the couch if Mary Margaret wasn’t so anal about coordinating decor.

 

 

 

 

(And while Emma is proving to the world that she’s worth a business card, a single mother of Puerto Rican descent takes over the Brooke City mayorship in a county that is 96.3% white, upper class, and stubbornly invested in a figurehead government. A hundred constituents in sweater sets and Land Rovers gaze on her reign with considerable disapproval, seeing the way that she ends ineffective careers and takes no prisoners and all of them wondering where in the hell she gets off. It’s not until she shows up to a charity dinner with a homemade apple pie, the most traditional symbol of their kind of America, that they start to warm up to her, even if they’re still all in agreement that she’s a c-u-n-t.

Emma will later learn that if Regina Mills had been allowed to do it her way, she would have made _tembleque_ and set the place on fire after introductions.

But now we’re getting ahead of ourselves.)

 

 

 

 

Exhibit D: Emma’s name tag, with her full name: Emma Swan. Swan, of Scottish origins, derived from the Old English name Swein, which was originally derived from Old Norse Sveinn. The family crest is in blue and white, featuring a lion, two swans, and a bloody red heart as a centerpiece. The lion for courage, the swans for grace, the heart for life and lust and magic. Or so they told her in the email from HeraldicOrigins.com, which she paid an embarrassing $39.99 just for the image download. When she handed the printed page to the tattoo artist, he laughed.

“Tattoo this size and this detailed means it’s gonna be a long-ass session. You must really love your family, huh?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

She used to keep it covered when she first got the job at Fit Royale, but then they liked that it made her appear “edgy” as a martial arts instructor. She’d tried her hardest not to laugh at that, at the fact that they needed her to project some kind of image of a person that her teenage self would have beat up behind a dumpster. In the end, she’d been more than happy to make the switch from t-shirts to her favorite white tanks.

 

 

 

 

Ruby loves to give her a hard time about the whole Fit Royale thing -- _How was your spin class today, Your Highness? Is that a new yoga mat, Your Majesty?_ \-- but she also insists on Emma having to namedrop her supposed celebrity clients whenever they’re out at The Jungle or The Grid or The Grotto or whatever new concept bar is Ruby’s favorite haunt that week. Emma will roll her eyes and the cute girls that Ruby never has any trouble befriending at work will ask who the most famous person she’s seen there is, and when Emma nurses her whiskey instead of answering, Ruby fills them in for her. 

“You will totally not believe who is in Emma’s self-defense class. _Regina fucking Mills._ ”

“No way,” and this is typically when the girl of the week leans in a little closer to Emma, maybe gives her a quick tap with her elbow. “Is she, like, super bitchy? Have you ever seen her yell at somebody?”

This tends to elicit a shrug and a smile from Emma. “Haven’t noticed.”

 

 

 

 

Actually, she has noticed.

The first day Regina Mills showed up in Emma’s self-defense master class, Emma had a hard time not staring. She had to remind herself to keep her mouth from hanging open like a goddamned trap. Sure, she knew the mayor of Brooke City was a client at Fit Royale, since high level clientele had to be common knowledge among staff, and Regina Mills was the highest of the high by Brooke City standards. 

Emma had been warned from the beginning that she too would eventually earn her very own Regina Mills Horror Story, something hilariously awful to be acted out in the break room for years to come. Spa attendants had tales of having to personally warm her towels until they were the exact temperature of her liking. Fitness room techs said she had a great ass when she ran, but holy shit did she get fussy about the equipment. There was a very famous account of her throwing a protein smoothie on another guest, although the exaggerated sound effects this one required made Emma want to call bullshit.

So the months had turned into a year, and the year had turned into two years, and if she’d seen Regina Mills at Fit Royale, it’d been from a safe distance and never in a position where she’d have to actually _serve_ her. Emma could concentrate on her classes and her trainees and beating Mulan’s squat record without worrying about the woman that the papers sometimes smeared as ‘the Evil Queen’ climbing up her ass.

 

 

 

 

Emma’s master classes were small, typically only 4-6 students. While the lower skill level classes were focused on 1 or 2 step disarming moves and basic defense, the mastery class involved mixed martial arts. She knew everyone in it because she’d watched them rise up through the ranks, or she’d already encountered them as skilled competitors. 

All this is to say that Regina Mills was something else entirely.

Emma wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been expecting. She watched the mayor in the mirror, moving in silence across the room, unzipping her jacket and taking a sip from her water. Emma felt extra stupid for having expected the woman to walk in and throw a protein smoothie on her, like she was some kind of cartoon villain.

When Regina had caught her eye in the mirror, Emma had almost bit her goddamned lip off.

 

 

 

 

The craziest part of all this -- the very fact of Regina Mills showing up to the class without warning, the other attendees automatically making space for her as if her place had been designated by law, Regina blatantly making eye contact with Emma for the entire warmup -- was that Regina was _freaky_ good.

When it came time for sparring, Emma had already done the math. There were 5 people in attendance, and if Emma had any knowledge of the human condition, she knew that no one was crazy enough to pair with the mayor. Sure enough, the rest of the class had found a partner in record time. Instead of cursing out her pupils for leaving her in this position -- _Everyone knows you have a tramp stamp of a monkey, Jane! Way to leave me hanging!_ \-- Emma turned to Regina. Regina beat her to the commentary.

“It seems we’re the leftovers, Miss Swan.”

Emma attempted what she hoped was a professional version of a friendly smile. “You can call me Emma, Regina.”

Nothing about Regina’s smile was friendly, though it was plenty professional.

“And you can call me Ms. Mills.”

 

 

 

 

Regina had Emma in a deadlock within thirty seconds of their first spar.

Emma resolved in that moment that in the case of Regina Mills, she would break her rule about always letting the client win. And maybe her rule about being gentle, too.

 

 

 

 

“So, is she hot?” The girl at the bar typically brings the conversation around to this point before long. This is when Emma is a little more buzzed and Ruby has sworn she’ll pay for the next round and the girl has texted her friend about being three degrees of separation from Regina Fucking Mills.

“I guess. I mean, she’s got that MILF-y thing going for her, if you’re into that.”

Ruby snorts, slides a Manhattan toward Emma. “You _guess_? I’ll give you a few more drinks before you start talking about her perfect ass again.” She turns to the new girl. “It’s a matter of time, trust me. Emma _wants_ her like cheese wants to be grilled.”

“Fuck off, man,” but okay, sure, sort of. Emma will admit that maybe there is the tiniest bit of attraction there, _maybe_.

 

 

 

 

Emma technically knew about Regina’s looks because she’d seen her face in the paper enough, and on campaign posters and in interviews and even that ironically hilarious photoshoot of the mayor naked in a bathtub full of apples, but she’d never seen her in person before, and apparently that was the dealbreaker. 

Regina doesn’t seem to sweat. She shows up to class with her hair down, rarely tying it up unless the sparring with Emma heats up. She wears an immaculate fitness outfit that Emma knows for a fact is at least a $500 ensemble. _And really, what kind of woman throws down 500 bucks for workout clothes?_

Regina Mills, apparently.

 

 

 

 

Exhibit E: A cup of Swiss Miss tapioca pudding, kept in the staff refrigerator at Fit Royale, always towards the back and marked in Sharpie with DO NOT EAT I WILL KILL YOU. Back when she was a kid who liked a good scrap better than most anything, Emma had a foster mother who would give Emma a cup of tapioca pudding for every day she didn’t get into a fight at school. In the end, it was less tapioca pudding than she would have liked, but she appreciated a mother who kept her word. She wasn’t used to those kinds of moms, and she didn’t see a lot of them after this one ended up sending her back when she ran out of funds. Now she eats tapioca pudding for lunch once a week and thinks of it as a reward for not kicking (or staring at) Regina Mills’ ass during class.

 

 

 

 

Regina has this tendency to lock eyes with Emma in the mirror during warmups, like she’s sizing her up each class for the inevitable sparring, reading her for weaknesses. Emma’s hungover once and she swears Regina can smell it on her, can tell from the way Regina tilts her chin up ever so slightly, smiling when Emma sweats a little too hard. Emma keeps trying to reformat the class so it won’t just be her and Regina fighting each other to the death for the final twenty five minutes. Somehow this plan always backfires. 

Once, she gets Regina on her back. Regina’s glaring up at her with the kind of look that might have melted off part of Emma’s face were the woman capable of black magic, and Emma has to stop herself from smirking at the victory. Instructors are not exactly supposed to take glee in showing up their clients. Company policy mandates the exact opposite behavior.

“Well done, Miss Swan.” Regina gets to her feet while blatantly ignoring Emma’s proffered hand.

“You too, Regina.”

“I lost.”

“We learn more from our mistakes than our--”

“Do shut up, Miss Swan.”

 

 

 

 

“Hey wondergirl,” Meg gives Emma a wave from across the locker room. While not as nice as the five star situation that the actual members get, the staff locker rooms are not exactly shabby. Emma’s pretty sure she’s never worked somewhere that gives you free nutritional supplements and insists on keeping expensive candles lit at all times. “Heard you made Regina Mills eat it today.”

Mulan immediately ducks out, claiming her kickboxing class needs an early set-up. Emma knows this is a blatant lie -- Mulan hates gossip and is avoiding the inevitable dish session that always happens with Meg catching them in the locker room.

“Whatever,” Emma says, rolls her eyes. “It’s a sparring class. There’s always a winner and a loser. Just happened that this time she was the loser.”

“You know you’re supposed to let her win, right?”

“Trust me, she wouldn’t appreciate that.”

Meg raises a far too amused eyebrow. “So she likes you all sweaty and aggressive, huh? Not surprised. Women like her always have a deep, dark closet of kink.”

Emma can’t help but grin a little, even if she’s shaking her head and trying to be preoccupied by refitting her sneakers. Meg continues as if she’s been invited to do so, which, for the record, she hasn’t been, but Emma is not going to say she _minds_ , not really.

“She’s got the whole hot bitch thing going for her. You know, with that need to control and the uptightness and the trademark fuck me pumps. I guarantee you that she’s a complete freak in bed. Girl wants to be tied up and done _hard_ , like, yesterday--”

“Shit,” Emma keeps looking around to make sure no one else is in there, catching the two of them talking about Regina Mills’ sex life. “This is the conversation that gets me sacked, isn’t it?”

“Or the one that gets you laid.” Meg winks. “I bet Mayor Mills would love some private lessons, Wondergirl.”

 

 

 

 

Next class, Regina’s in the studio fifteen minutes early. Emma arrives to her waiting outside the door, looking annoyed. Not that Emma can think of a reason why she would have annoyed Regina Mills, at least not before 10 am, but the world is just bursting with possibilities.

“Class doesn’t start until--”

“I can tell the time, Miss Swan.” Regina holds up her wrist, where a watch that Emma guarantees is at least 2k is strapped to perfection. 

“You wanted to come early for a rematch?” Emma grins a little too widely and regrets it. Regina returns the smile with a snort.

“My record is 9-1, Miss Swan. In sporting terms, I would still be considered the reigning champion.”

Emma can’t think of a decent comeback to that, so she just smile awkwardly, unlocks the studio door and stands back to let Regina pass. It seems unnatural to lead her.

“I have a proposition for you, Miss Swan,” and at this, Emma almost chokes on air itself.

“Um, sure.”

Regina fixes her with a look of utter seriousness. It terrifies Emma, just a little bit. “I want you to teach my son self-defense. When you’re not instructing him, you’d be his bodyguard.”

Emma tries not to look like Regina just grew another head, as it’s probably rude or something. “His bodyguard? I’m a fitness instructor.”

Regina makes a dismissive gesture, her hand swatting the air as though Emma’s commentary is nothing more than a sad little mosquito. “We both know you’re capable of killing a man with your bare hands, Miss Swan. Let’s not play coy.”

“Do you anticipate me _needing_ to kill a man with his bare hands?” Emma knows she is raising an eyebrow, even though she also knows that Regina will probably consider such facial expressions to be rude. 

“No,” Regina says curtly. “But I wouldn’t be paying someone this much to _not_ possess that skill.” She pulls out a checkbook from a hidden part of her skintight outfit. “500 upfront, and then a monthly allowance.”

“When you say bodyguard, do you mean, like, wearing a suit and an earpiece and following the kid around his playground? Is your kid the president?”

Regina rolls her eyes. “Please try to take this seriously, Miss Swan. If anything, I’d need someone to make sure he gets home from school in one piece, someone who can help him with his homework, make him a snack or dinner if I’m running late, maybe an educational game or two. Obviously, I’d leave a daily list of activities, but--”

“Wait.” It dawns on Emma like a punch to the face. “You’re asking me to be your _nanny_.”

“I’m asking you to be my son’s bodyguard, Miss Swan.”

“Who helps him with his homework and makes him eat applesauce while they play blackjack--”

“Blackjack is not an educational game, Miss Swan. Please don’t ever teach my son to play blackjack.”

“--and watches him when you’re not there? Unless I’m watching him because a hitman has also been ordered to watch him, nothing you’re asking me to do is outside the realm of nannying.”

Regina sighs, no longer making eye contact with Emma. Clearly her presence is _exasperating_ or some other word Regina would pronounce with perfect exacting poison. “If you want to think of it that way, Miss Swan, then by all means.”

“I can’t just quit Fit Royale. I have six classes a week, and we’re only halfway through the session.”

“You’d have mornings off. I wouldn’t need you to be at my home until 2.”

“You said it was 500 upfront?”

“And then monthly allowances. I thought 2000 would be appropriate, but if you think that’s not enough--”

Emma nods furiously. “That’ll do.”

 

 

 

 


	2. in which the adorable precocious child enters the narrative

 

 

 

 

Mary Margaret is the one who’s good with children, and there’s going to be a lot of jokes about that -- her not being paid enough to teach 30 kindergartners, Emma being paid too much to haphazardly supervise an adolescent. They share a one bedroom in the older part of town that Emma attempted to convert into a two bedroom with empty crates and cardboard. Now Mary Margaret promises to keep it down when David comes over and to try and refrain from singing in the morning, especially if it’s going to encourage the local bird population to join in and alight upon her shoulders.

In the meantime, Emma Swan has the mayor of Brooke City on speed dial and a new lifting record. Not bad for someone who stole a record of nine shotglasses from a single Hooter’s franchise.

 

 

 

 

Regina comes up to Emma after their next class, right after she’s been narrowly victorious in sparring and is smiling only a little bit more wickedly about it. Not that Emma pays attention to the intricacies of Regina Mills’ smiles, or even wonders later what they all could mean, all the little curves and angles and the neat dip of her lips when you’ve just done something she finds slightly annoying. She wears lipstick to work out, for Christ’s sake. Anyway, Emma definitely doesn’t think about Regina’s mouth. It would be totally bonkers for her to keep thinking about her mouth, or any other part of her pending employer. That would be--

“I’d like you to meet Henry before you start, just to get you acquainted with him and the house.” Regina is staring intently at her phone where Emma imagines a flawlessly packed schedule is flashing, just waiting for her to be entered like another appointment. “Are you free during the evening this week?”

“Um...” Emma is mentally scanning a list of all the things she has to do this week, and besides replace the toilet paper and tell Mary Margaret that if she doesn’t buy condoms for herself, Emma will go out and do it for her, she’s coming up woefully short.

“It’s fine if you’re not available. I’m sure you have plans with your boyfriend or your wide social circle, something fun and exciting.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Regina cocks her head slightly, and smiles like she’s getting a long-standing question answered. “Girlfriend, then?”

Emma has to suppress a groan. “I’m single, Regina.”

“Shocking,” Regina says, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Any time you want to interrupt my evening plans of eating dinner alone and watching action movies from 1984 on my laptop, you’re free to do so.”

“Great. Expect a text message from me, then.”

Emma, suddenly forgetting how you nod or say ‘okay’ to another person, gives Regina a thumbs-up. Regina stares at this gesture, and then backs up slowly, making her way to the door. 

It take Emma another few minutes to figure out how in the hell Regina has her number, and then recalls that she gave it out to the class on the first day, never imagining that anyone would actually think about writing down the number, much less _use_ said number. She especially never imagined that Regina Mills had been listening intently enough at the time to have memorized the number and entered it into her phone until an hour later. Emma wonders what her contact says. _Probably fucking “Miss Swan” or something,_ but now she has no idea what she’s going to name _Regina’s_ contact. Mayor Mills? Regina Mills? Bosslady? Motherfucking Mayor Regina Mills For Serious? 

Her phone buzzes ten minutes later. It’s Regina, and Emma saves her under “regina”. Partly because she can’t think of anything better, partly because something in her gut tells her she’s better off on a first name basis. And Emma wouldn’t be Emma if she wasn’t willing to follow her gut off a cliff or two.

 

 

 

 

Her phone buzzes yet again that afternoon. She’s on the elliptical, trying to give Mulan’s record a run for its money and ignoring the fact that Ruby has just gotten way too excited about the name on Emma’s phone. 

“Are you going over there--”

“Yes, Ruby.”

“Is this because she _wants_ your--”

“No, Ruby.”

“How did you get her--”

“No.”

“How did she--”

“No.”

“Why--”

“No.”

“But--”

“No, absolutely not.”

Ruby slams to a halt on her elliptical, her eyes narrowing like a predator before its prey. There are times when the face this girl gives is enough to give Emma a goddamned nightmare. Seriously, Ruby’s not even blinking.

“You’re not allowed to play coy with me unless you’re trying to sleep with me, and trust me when I say you’re not my type.” She takes a swig of water, glaring at Emma out of the corner of her eye.

“Not bookish enough,” Emma teases. “And I don’t go in for beasts. Oh, and I’m actually available, which is always a turn-off for you.”

This gets to Ruby in exactly the way Emma knew it would, and she huffs, swings her gravity-defying ponytail to the side. “I’m a _client_ , you know. As a staff member, you’re supposed to be nice to me.”

“Actually, you’re the plus one on my staff card, so don’t push it. You’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘lowest setting on the elliptical’.” 

“It’s a known fact that you burn more fat on the lowest setting.”

“It’s also a known fact that it’s easier for you to pay attention to the television playing Food Network when you have it on the lowest setting.”

Ruby snorts. “Are we done insulting my use of the gym? Because I have questions about this whole ‘Regina Mills just sent you a fucking text message’ situation.”

“There’s no situation. She’s my employer. She has to send me the details of my employment. It happens.”

The classic look of Ruby skepticism and sassiness is a little too much right now. “The details of your employment involve dinner now, huh?”

“The kid’s gonna be there, dude. It’s just so I’ll know where everything is, like a tour of the fire escapes and the first aid kits and important nanny shit, I don’t know.”

“Do you think the tour concludes in her bedroom?” After a particularly harsh glare, Ruby holds up her hands in an attempt at innocence. “I’m just saying, could be a first aid kit in there. Because she’s been nothing but professional so far, right?”

Emma chooses to ignore that particular question.

 

 

 

 

Despite Regina sending directions -- the worst directions, Emma might add, that she’s ever encountered in her life, with such gems as “take a left after the market” and “it’s right after the Murphy’s carriage house” as if every single person knows which fucking market is which and who the fuck the Murphy’s are and what the fuck a goddamned house for carriages looks like -- Emma reverts to Google Maps. Driving an ancient Beetle on its last legs through the McMansions of the immediate Brooke City suburbs is one of the more ironic things she’s done in the last ten years. Not since some piece of shit named Gaston beat her at pull-ups in the seventh grade has she felt this much emotional grumbling in her chest. She only spent three goddamned hours picking out an outfit, all while blaring Freebird and contemplating a shot or two of Jim Beam.

The house is exactly as she’d pictured it, and it doesn’t help that she pictured it with a perfect garden and one of those driveways that can be entered from two directions and a lawn so green that a team of landscapers has to be responsible for its flawless hue. She tries to count the windows, an old habit, and then gives up. She’ll be taking it in from the inside in a few minutes anyway, and if she learned anything during that brief stint of casing houses with Al and Abu, you’ll know everything you need to know about a person from the layout of their foyer.

 

 

 

 

Regina Mills’ foyer is immaculate, and hides a view of the rest of the house, which Emma can only imagine from the staircase and the carefully arranged decor is pretty incredible. View of said foyer is slightly blocked by the kid standing in front of her, having just answered the door. He’s looking at her as if he’s been expecting her, but is now not sure what exactly he expected.

“You must be Henry.” Emma shoots a hand out, hoping he understands the gesture. She can’t think of what age she’d been forced to shake hands with everyone she met, including potential foster parents and whatever teacher she was apologizing to for helping the class lizard escape. “I’m Emma.”

“My name’s Enrique,” the kid says, fixing Emma with a skeptical look. He gives her hand a weak shake. “You can call me Henry, though.”

“Enrique? That’s a pretty awesome name.”

Henry sighs, his face becoming all scrunched up and serious. “Tell that to Prince John the Fourth.”

“Who’s Prince John the Fourth?”

“The kid in my class who calls me Enri-gay.” 

“Why is someone with a name like Prince John the Fourth picking on people for their names? Does he not realize that his name is the most bulliable in the class?”

“Actually, there’s a girl in my class named Chastity. And one in the year below me named Merriweather.”

“Rich kid school must be a trip.” 

Emma looks down at the kid, too skinny for his age and a few inches too short and the kind of leftover she would’ve had to take under her wing in a foster home, the one who was always getting beat up or pushed to the back of lines until she stepped in and kicked the bully’s ass. Technically, that’s what the mayor is asking her to do this time, except more indirectly. Last time she checked she’s not exactly allowed to kick some 11 year old’s ass.

“Have you ever killed someone?”

Emma balks at the little guy, who stares up at her with a look of such innocence that she can only assume it’s put on. “Kid, seriously.”

“Mom says you’re my bodyguard. She says you’re the best fighter she’s ever seen.”

 _Sheesh, Regina._ “I have never killed someone, no. And I don’t plan on it, because killing people is definitely wrong. Have you guys talked about that in school yet? You know murder is unlawful, right?”

Henry blinks. “I’m ten.”

“Right.” She is starting to think that this job would be easier if all she was doing was fighting ninjas or tackling paparazzi or whatever else she anticipated as daily bodyguard tasks. “Can I give you some advice? Prince John the Fourth is a butthead. Am I allowed to say that? Is butthead a bad word?”

“I’m ten,” Henry repeats, raising an eyebrow. Emma’s glad to see the tiniest of smirks starting, though.

“Great, so we’re agreed that he’s a butthead. Possibly the biggest butthead in the history of buttheads. And I think that we should spend the rest of tonight coming up with the worst nickname we can for Prince John the Fart. Sound like a plan, kid?” 

Henry grins. “Prince John the Fartsicle.”

“Oh, damn! That’s even better. You’re gonna show me up with these insulting nicknames, aren’t you?”

Henry shrugs, but that big grin stays. It feels like a victory to Emma, even if it’s a small one.

Regina appears at the other end of the foyer, dressed in what Emma imagines is daily mayor wear, or whatever it is Regina’s wearing outside the gym. The clicking of the patent black heels, and Emma can’t even help that she’s taking her in from the bottom up, from the silk stockings up to the curve-hugging black dress with the revealing square collar and the string of black pearls and her hair half up as she reaches to--

“Miss Swan, welcome. So you and Henry have met.” When Regina puts her hands on Henry’s shoulders, her smile glows like a solar flare. It’s not hard to see that Mayor Mills falls into the “dangerously proud” category of parenting. Emma can’t tell yet if this is going to make her job easier or far, far worse.

 

 

 

 

“This lasagna is really good, damn. I mean, um, _darn_.” Emma gives Regina a searching look, a kid about to get a timeout. “Jeepers?”

Regina, ignoring Emma’s pleading puppy dog eyes, turns to her son. “Henry, why don’t you help Miss Swan out? Do we cuss at the dinner table?”

Henry shrugs, smiling ever so slightly into his plate. “Not usually.”

“Exactly.”

“But Mom did say there were exceptions,” Henry continues. “Like when the city government is being a bunch of stubborn pieces of--”

“Pie,” Regina says quickly, smiling unconvincingly at Emma. “There’s apple pie for dessert. Homemade, of course.”

“Of course,” Emma says, laughs a little like it’s a joke until she sees that Regina is dead fucking serious about apple pie. “I’ve never had homemade apple pie before,” she adds, as if that fully explains it.

Regina raises an eyebrow, though nothing about her look has softened. “Lucky us to be the ones to remedy this travesty.”

“Blueberry is my favorite,” Henry says quickly, grinning at Emma. “It’s sweet but not sweet at the same time.”

“Tart, dear.” Regina is beaming at Henry. “The word you’re looking for is tart.”

“Tart, yeah,” Henry says, sliding his clean plate away from him. “But apple’s good, too.” He looks back to Emma. “Did your mom not know how to make pies or something?”

“Henry,” Regina says, and there’s a completely new tone to her voice, but Emma nods at her, tries to smile it off.

“No, it’s cool,” she says, and then shrugs easily for Henry. “It’s not a big deal, kid, but I actually didn’t have a mom. I had a lot of moms.”

Henry squints at her, but then smiles in recognition. “My friend Miko has two moms. They got married in Vermont. They own a goat farm, and they make their own bread.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Actually, not like that. I had a lot of moms because I was in foster care. The lady that gave birth to me couldn’t take care of me, so she gave me to a lot of people who could take care of me instead.”

Henry drops his fork. “You were adopted?”

“Uh, sort of. I didn’t really make it to the whole adoption stage of life, but I always hoped I was heading there, if, you know. Things worked out.” Emma tries to decide whether or not this is going to blow his little mind, since he’s reacting to her like she just told him she canceled Arrested Development. Not that he would get that reference, being 11, but she--

“I was adopted, too!” Henry nearly shouts, grinning from ear to ear. “This is _awesome_.”

Emma glances at Regina, who is a bit pink in the cheeks but seems to be holding it together. She gives Emma a small smile, makes a gesture like it was something she wanted Henry to tell her himself.

Emma smiles back.

 

 

 

 

“And the other first aid kit is in the guest bathroom, but I can’t think of why you’d run out of supplies in the other one. If that happens, I’d assume you’d have already called an ambulance, since that’s an emergency of alarming proportions.” 

“Call the ambulance when I run out of band-aids, right. Got it.”

Regina gives Emma a look over her shoulder, closing the cabinet of the guest bathroom. For a bathroom that probably gets used once a year at the most, it’s better than every bathroom Emma’s ever used combined.

“I was being sarcastic, Miss Swan.”

“Well, I was dead serious. I’ll dial 911 the second I realize there’s less than enough medical tape in the downstairs kit, I promise.” She winks -- _winks? what the fuck am I doing?_ \-- at Regina. “Inadequate supplies will not happen on my watch.”

Regina turns to face her now, her expression unreadable. “Miss Swan, may I be upfront with you?”

“Of course.”

“My son is being bullied at school. While there have not been _too_ many physical altercations, I need to know he can protect himself. That’s why I hired you. I don’t expect you to be god’s gift to babysitting. Heaven knows that would be--” and she gives Emma a one-over “-- a stretch, yes. I just need you to keep him safe. I need to know that you are capable of keeping him safe, by teaching him how to be safe. And...and intervening if it’s ever necessary.”

“I...yes.” Emma holds out a hand, because shaking hands seems to the theme of the night, because she’s been told to shake hands since she was 5 years old and her counselor told her she’d have to use manners to make up for her ‘personality issues’. She shakes Regina’s hand, and nods, too, just to be clear. “I can do that.”

There’s a flutter of something in Regina’s eyes, and she smiles quickly, the same smile from dinner, her hands playing at her necklace as if they’ve forgotten what to do when they’re not shaking hands with Emma Swan. “Thank you, Miss Swan.”

And for whatever moronic reason, Emma Swan gives Regina Mills a thumbs-up and straight up quotes Mary-Kate and Ashley on ‘Full House’. “You got it, dude.” 

“Please don’t call me dude again.”

“Right, sorry. Regina. Mayor Mills. Right.”

 

 

 

 


	3. in which we are confronted with the first awkward notes of intense sexual tension

 

 

 

 

Emma’s driving home, the radio stuck as it has been for the last three months to a station that only plays eighties power ballads. Just as Steve Perry’s “Oh Sherrie” starts playing for the third time this week, she’s thinking about the same things over and over again.

 

 

 

 

The thing that happened when they were washing dishes.

_“You don’t need to do that,” Regina says, suddenly standing behind her in the kitchen. Emma is at the sink, hands red from the hot water, and she shrugs, pulls her sleeve up a little more._

_“You made me dinner,” she says, because that’s enough._

_“Guests don’t wash dishes in my house, Miss Swan.”_

_“I’m not your guest, though.” Emma can see her own reflection in the window over the sink, can see Regina’s face behind her, the way she’s staring her straight in the eye just like they’ve done so many times in the studio mirror. “I’m your employee.”_

_And if there’s a change in Regina’s expression, Emma can’t tell._

_“I’m not going to get you to stop, am I?”_

_“Nope.”_

_Regina sighs. “Move over, then. I’ll dry.”_

_Emma hands her the first plate, makes sure their hands don’t touch in the exchange. She doesn’t know why it would be so bad, to make any physical contact with Regina Mills that isn’t wrestling her to the ground or pinning her with an elbow, but it seems outside of the terms of her contract, at least. And there’s something that’s making her mind fuzzy right now, maybe the pie._

_Probably not the pie._

_There are two pictures on the windowsill -- a polaroid of Henry in a pool, and a picture of him and Regina, framed and leaning against the window. Emma only looks at them once, feeling like there’s something too intimate about them, too private._

_“Thank you for saying what you did at dinner,” Regina says, and it’s almost quieter, almost softer, maybe as soft and quiet as the mayor can get. “I hope it wasn’t upsetting, Henry prompting you to bring all that up.”_

_Emma snorts. “It wasn’t upsetting. Trust me, I could do the dark and sordid Oliver Twist version, but even that doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m just glad it didn’t freak him out.”_

_They are both looking at their hands as they wash, dry, but Emma can feel Regina’s eyes on her for a moment, a quick glance._

_“The other children have sometimes teased him for it. Being adopted, I mean. I don’t think it’s as bad as it used to be, or if it is, he doesn’t tell me.”_

_“Can I be totally honest with you? Kids are little shits. If it wasn’t his being adopted, it’d be his hair or his name. We used to be absolutely horrible to each other at the foster home, and I thought it was just the foster kids until they put me in public school. All kids are horrible.”_

_There’s a pause, and then Regina takes a deep breath. “It was his name this year.”_

_“Yeah, he told me. Prince John the Fourth or something. Pardon my French, but who the fuck names their kid Prince John the Fourth? Even more outrageous, who the fuck makes fun of other kids’ names when theirs is Prince John the Fourth?”_

_Regina laughs, that rougher laugh that takes Emma by surprise. “His father is a drama queen. State senator who thinks he’s very important and wants to keep it that way. A real snake, actually.”_

_“Is he Prince John the Third?”_

_“That’s the worst part. There is no Prince John the Third, or Second, or First. There is just Prince John the Fourth.”_

_“So what is he the fourth of?”_

_Regina laughs again, and Emma laughs, and this isn’t the weirdest thing, them laughing in Regina Mills’ kitchen, _the_ Regina Mills who was photographed naked in a bathtub of apples right after the most bloodthirsty mayoral race in the history of the state. _

_“Your guess is as good as mine.” Regina stops laughing, and the hard line of her lips has softened slightly into a small smile, a private one. “I didn’t know you were a foster child. I don’t know why that’s information you would have volunteered to me, and I’m not saying you should have at any point, but it might be helpful for Henry. That’s not something I can give him, and--”_

_“Regina, hey.” Emma turns to face her, her hands still in the water. “There’s nothing you can’t give him. You know what I would have done to get myself adopted back in the day? I wasn’t even aiming for a decent family, I was desperate enough that mediocre would have done just fine by me. I can tell you because I know, okay? He is so goddamned lucky that you’re his mother.”_

_And if Regina’s cheeks are red from the steam or from what Emma’s just said, she doesn’t know._

_“That’s...thank you, Miss Swan. You don’t need to say things like that.”_

_“Didn’t need to wash the dishes either, but I wanted to, so. Tough shit.”_

_Regina clears her throat, and she’s drying a knife this time, running the towel carefully over the blade. Her expression changes, and she takes another deep breath, shifts her eyes back to her hands._

_“In the future, Miss Swan, I’d appreciate that you do follow the directions I give you, as opposed to disobeying because you, as you said, ‘wanted to’. As an employee, you’ll need to demonstrate that you’re not merely doing things because you feel like it.”_

_Emma nods, tries to keep her focus on her hands. “Of course, yeah. Sorry about that. Won’t happen again.”_

_“Excellent,” Regina says, and that $500 blade slides soundlessly back into its case._

 

 

 

 

The thing that happened when they were drinking the $8 wine Emma brought.

_Regina takes a sip, purses her lips. “Well, isn’t this...an interesting flavor.”_

_Emma tilts back her glass, nearly choking at the acrid smell in her nostrils. The taste is enough to make her suppress a cough. “What was the word Henry used before?”_

_“Tart?”_

_“Yep, tart. It’s tart.”_

_“Tart, yes.” Regina takes another polite sip, gives Emma a smile that is anything but genuine. “Did the label say what region it was from?”_

_Emma runs her tongue over her teeth. “Um, Ohio? I think?”_

_“Ah.” Regina sets her glass down on the coffee table, sits back on the couch with her legs crossed in such a way that Emma would put money on the fact that somebody made her go to a posture coach as a kid. “How thoughtful of you to bring it with you.”_

_“Sure, of course.” It takes everything in Emma’s will to not spit the wine back into the glass. If she were home alone, she’d have already finished the bottle and be onto the box in the fridge, but just being in Regina’s presence seems to have made her about a hundred times more aware of what everything tastes like. “I promise never to bring this back to your home again.”_

_Regina is grinning ever so slightly. “Thank you,” she whispers, and pours both of their glasses into the sink._

 

 

 

 

The thing that happened when they said goodbye.

_”Thank you for coming over on such short notice.”_

_“Thanks for having me. And for making me dinner, and pie, and for putting up with the wine, too, and just general hospitality. Thank you for being, um, hospitable.”_

_“Hospitable, of course.”_

_“For sure.”_

_“We’ll see you on Monday, then.”_

_“Yep. Have a great weekend.”_

_“Drive safe, Miss Swan.”_

_“I always drive safe.”_

_“Is one capable of driving safely in that vehicle?”_

_“Not so loud, the bug can hear you! She resents those who doubt her abilities.”_

_“Your car is female?”_

_“All great machines are.”_

_“Fascinating, Miss Swan.”_

_“You’re telling me your Benz doesn’t have a name?”_

_“Should it?”_

_“It’ll run better with a name.”_

_“It’s run perfectly fine without one.”_

_“She looks like a Beyonce to me. Or a Michelle Pfeiffer, weirdly enough.”_

_“Are all cars named after female celebrities?”_

_“Only the best ones. You’ve got to feel out their character, the way they react to you. If she’s classy or sassy, that kind of thing.”_

_“I’ll think on it, Miss Swan.”_

_“Cool, right. Thanks again.”_

_“Of course. Goodnight.”_

_“Goodnight!”_

_And at this moment, Emma Swan had walked down the cobblestone sidewalk to her car, given Regina a wave over her shoulder, trying to see whether or not the figure standing in the doorway was still smiling, and stalled the bug twice. Driving safe, right, of course._

 

 

 

 

And the thing is, she can’t decide what it was about those moments that made her feel like she’d been simultaneously intruding and closing in on something. Maybe that something wasn’t for her to figure out yet. Or maybe Regina Mills was a regulation tightass who kept all of her emotions too close to the belt, and thus any time she did open up ever so slightly, the slamming shut of her psychological vault door was hitting Emma in the backside. 

Either or.

 

 

 

 

Mary Margaret’s still awake when she gets home at midnight, which either means she’s been fired or there’s been a fire. Some sort of emergency has taken place, and Emma nearly drops her things when she unlocks the front door and finds Mary Margaret standing on the other side of it, holding a flashlight and looking teary.

“I am so glad you’re here,” she says, and immediately wraps Emma in a tight hug, impressive for someone that Emma was convinced up until last year had avian bone syndrome. “I thought you’d never come.”

“Well, returning home to my own apartment where I pay rent and possess a bed was the least I could do tonight.”

Mary Margaret pulls back to stare Emma down with those gigantic moist peepers of hers. “Emma, it has been the worst night of my life. I know you’re embarking on something very important with your career in child care, and I would never want to disturb that, not even a little bit, but it has been crisis ground zero here tonight.”

“Is David not here tonight?”

“Oh, oh no. David, he...I can’t, Emma, I just can’t.” Mary Margaret starts crying, the kind of cry that one could expect from a small animal or a baby version of a large animal. It is squeaky and wet. She goes back in for another bone-crushing hug. “Emma, I’m just so glad you came back.”

“Did you two break up?”

“David and I? No, I don’t think we did. I don’t know, maybe we did. Maybe he’s never coming back. I can’t say for sure because I honestly don’t know.” 

“M&M, seriously. What happened?”

“Emma, it is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. It is absolutely beyond terrible. I almost called an ambulance but decided I should wait until you come home and see what you think.”

“Shit, are you hurt?”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s just--”

“And what’s with the flashlight?”

“I lost a condom.”

Emma blinks. “Wait. Wait, what?”

Mary Margaret is whispering as if they are in a crowded locale and not in fact their private residence where they are the only ones home. “I...lost...a...condom. It’s lost. Gone.”

“Where?”

“You _know_ ,” Mary Margaret is still bright red and crying slightly as she gestures downward. “In my lady garden.”

“Oh, shit. No thank you. Nope. Nope, nope, definitely nope.”

“Emma, you have to help. If you don’t help, I will probably die.”

“This is the crisis you wanted to call an ambulance over?”

Mary Margaret starts gesturing wildly. “What happens if it just stays there? It could get all tangled up in my lady parts and do some sort of permanent damage. I want to have babies, Emma! I want to have at least six or seven babies, preferably four boys and three girls! How can I have four boys and three girls in the baby way if there is this, this _thing_ stuck somewhere in my facilities?”

“Call David. You’re a fantastic roommate and obviously it would not be the first vagina I went exploring in, but this is his department, not mine. He who placed it there should be the one to retrieve it, I believe is the saying.”

“I don’t think that’s a saying, Emma.”

“Nope, that’s definitely what it is.” Emma starts backing up towards her bedroom door, attempting a smile that she hopes is simultaneously reassuring and aggressive. “Okay, so good luck with that, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

The strangest and most unexpected part of this entire incident is that when Emma looks down at her phone, she has one new message from Regina Mills.

 

 

 

 

Emma will later hear two versions of what happens when Regina arrives at her apartment, one told in slightly more hysterics than the other:

Regina’s version is that she knocked on the door and a young woman with inhumanly large eyes opened the door, screamed “David!” ( _or Dick or Dan or something? I don’t know, Emma, please stop asking me to tell this ridiculous story_ ) and upon realizing that Regina was not named David, closed the door in Regina’s face. The door opened again, the young woman with the inhumanly large eyes smiled with all of her teeth and broke into a series of profusely awkward apologies. 

Mary Margaret’s version is that the mayor of Brooke City showed up at their door at 1 in the morning, just as she was attempting to fish a piece of plastic out of her you know what. She believes her behavior was justified by the mayor of Brooke City ( _which is crazy, Emma, I don’t care if you work for her or whatever, that’s just crazy! I’m trying to be my own gynecologist and this beautiful rich lady just shows up at the door like it’s no big deal!_ ) giving her “a look”, which Mary Margaret interpreted as being chastised. This made her very nervous, and she told the mayor she was super, _super_ sorry. 

By the time Emma showed up at the door, Regina was holding out her leather jacket as if it was carrying a disease, and Mary Margaret was the same shade as a tomato, a flustered tomato shrieking apologies in a sing-songy voice, a doe-eyed tomato with a condom currently lost somewhere in her tomato insides.

Credit for the tomato metaphor goes to Regina, who later recounts this story only when forced and only after having a glass of expensive wine that Emma will declare “medicine-y tasting”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You didn’t have to drive all the way over here,” Emma starts, now holding the jacket under her arm. She has this sinking suspicion that were she to press her nose into its folds, she’d smell Regina’s house and Regina’s kitchen and thus, in a way, Regina herself, but that suspicion immediately makes her stomach flip and thinking about the way your employer smells is _weird, right?_

Regina’s arms are folded over her chest, a typical Regina pose. She’s eyeing something on the hallway ceiling, and Emma can only guess that it’s one of the millions of spiderwebs or suspicious stains or one of those weird signs about alien abduction her neighbor keeps hanging up in the common spaces. “I was awake anyway.”

Emma wants to call her on whatever this goddamned bluff is, like driving all the way out of the plush suburbs and into the arguably wrong side of the tracks is not a big deal, like Regina showing up at her door past midnight to deliver a jacket she doesn’t need in this weather is supposed to be a minimal effort event or something. 

“Sure, _right_. Do you want to come inside? I promise my apartment is less disturbing than the rest of the building.”

Regina shifts her left foot, showing off something on the bottom of her leather boot. “There’s some kind of...fluid...on the staircase. You should report it to your landlord.”

“My landlord actually pees on that staircase all the time.”

“You’re joking.”

“I could be, yes.” 

Regina immediately steps over the threshold as if seeking asylum. She shoots a cautious look over her shoulder before closing the door.

“That is truly disturbing.”

“Welcome to the south side of Brooke City.” Emma sweeps a hand over what passes for a living room in their apartment. Mary Margaret has retreated to her bedroom but is undoubtedly listening to everything they’re saying while attempting to solve her interior issues. “Do you want to sit down? I can get you something to drink.” She opens the refrigerator to an even more pathetic sight than she’d predicted. “I’ve got, um, water, half a can of pineapple juice, a PBR, and some tequila. I could make a sad version of a tequila sunrise, but just a warning that it’s the bottom shelf tequila and has been used in the past to strip the paint from our doors.”

Regina does not sit down. “I’m fine, thank you. I should probably get going anyway. Henry is--”

Emma is suddenly hit by the realization that Henry must be home alone. Asleep, probably, but still. Regina never struck her as the type of mother to let her son play fifteen feet from the front door, let alone be left in the house on his own. “Is he there alone right now?”

There’s a flicker of something across Regina’s face, if only for a moment. “No, there’s someone there with him.” _Well then, Ms. Mayor._ “At any rate, it’s late. Henry is prone to nightmares, which is something you should probably know about him as his nanny.”

Emma smirks. “I thought I was his bodyguard.”

“You know what I mean, Miss Swan.” Regina goes to the door again, giving the hallway another look of disapproval before stepping out into it. “So, goodnight. The second goodnight of the night.”

“Are you typically a multiple goodnight person, or are you making an exception for me?”

“I never make exceptions, Miss Swan.” That smile Emma can never read. “You really should have your landlord reported, you know.”

“I think the whole point of America is that if you own property, you can pee on it,” Emma jokes, despite all existing evidence that she should just stop goddamned telling jokes around Regina Mills. 

“As an actual government employee, I can tell you that this is not the point at all.”

Emma should just wave and close the door, but instead she watches Regina tread gingerly down the hall and then attempt the stairs on her toes. It’s kind of hilarious.

 

 

 

 


	4. in which the sassy best friend is already preternaturally aware of the sexual tension

 

 

 

 

Regina is in class on Monday. Emma’s had a weekend of cheap beer and reality television and Mary Margaret referring to her as “not exactly the child whisperer”, followed immediately by Mary Margaret explaining the plot of the Robert Redford film in which he is a horse whisperer so as to explain the reference she is making.

Ruby keeps texting her for straight girl advice and Emma feels like it must be the people in her life who are giving her a hangover. Her hangover has a hangover. Her hangover’s hangover is a famous hangover with over 19 hangover kids and counting. She doesn’t want to deal with Ruby pretending like she hasn’t already asked about Regina showing up to her house for no apparent reason, or with Mary Margaret betraying her typically sunshine-dappled demeanor to make a quietly argumentative remark about the pile of empty beer cans in the sink. 

So obviously she doesn’t want to deal with Regina walking in the door of that Fit Royale studio and giving her “a look”. Thing is, she doesn’t. She doesn’t look at Regina at all.

She doesn’t even _smile_ at Emma when she comes in, barely even acknowledges her until they’re face to face in the mirror and then Emma forces a big, stupid grin, something that she hopes will come across as friendly and easy and not “you’re paying me to take responsibility for your child, why the fuck are you acting like we’ve never met?” And yet she’s not surprised at all when Regina nods, expressionless, and continues with the workout.

 

 

 

 

Regina wins the sparring this time. 

“Is Henry excited?” Emma offers Regina a hand, and Regina refuses it, as usual.

“For what, Miss Swan?”

“For me coming over today? For a new nanny, or bodyguard, or whatever he thinks I am.”

Regina blinks. “Why do you want to talk about this now?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk about this now?”

“Because you’re instructing a class right now, and you’re a professional.” Regina says this as though she greatly doubts Emma has ever been anything even resembling a “professional”. Regina says this as though the only professional Emma is is a professional pain in her ass.

“Okay, _fine_.” Emma tries not to say that like but a five year old, but it comes out that way anyway. She gets back to snapping at Jane about bad form and telling Marlin to step it the fuck up, since she made an exception for a middle-aged man to get into this class and homeboy needs to prove he was worth it.

Regina steps back into her place in line, the smallest smile on her face. Emma just _doesn’t fucking get it_ but she decides to yell at people instead. She turns back to the line, everyone panting and a little bit sick of her except for Regina, who continues to every so slightly smirk.

“Harder,” she barks.

 

 

 

 

“Where the fuck did you just come from?” Mulan rarely swears, not because she’s a prude but because she’s weird on the descriptive front, not as big on the hyperbole and less of a hot mess than Emma is half the time. So Emma knows she must look like a trainwreck for Mulan to see her in the locker room and drop the word ‘fuck’ into a sentence that quickly.

“Class,” she grunts, keeps her head down. She knows Mulan is still gaping at her.

“You look like you just ran a marathon and got mugged on the way home.”

“Thanks, Mulan. Really feeling the love right now.”

“You should pop over to the spa, maybe get a massage. You look like you need it.”

“Can’t. Gotta be somewhere early.”

Mulan gives her yet another look. “Early? You? Did the apocalypse happen while I was in the shower?”

“You know I already have a sassy gay friend, right? The quota has been filled.”

If Ruby was here, she’d probably make a comment about how this isn’t a romantic comedy, Emma, fucking _hell_ , but it’s Mulan, so she just gets some rolled eyes and a silent shaking of the head.

Anyway, she has to go be responsible for another human being in exactly one hour, so. She’s got bigger things to worry about.

 

 

 

 

Regina’s given her a key to the house and she lets herself in the kitchen door. Not that Regina would probably be mad about her going through the front, but something about it feels _weird_ and Emma already feels _weird_ because she wants Henry to like her, she wants everything to go smoothly, she’s not qualified for this, and Regina is the type of person who must take qualifications very seriously. She’s shocked that at this point Regina hasn’t given her a drug test and mentioned that one time she got kicked out of a house for smoking weed on the roof because the social worker said it was ‘endangering fellow minors.’

To calm her nerves, she decides to walk through the house, get her bearings. Maybe open and close a few drawers, figure out where everything is again. It’s not really snooping if she’s being paid to be there anyway, right? Or something, right.

 

 

 

 

The thing is that she notices...things.

Photographs, everywhere. As if Regina’s afraid that not taking constant photographic records of Henry’s existence will cause him to float away into nothingness. Photos of Henry as a baby, of miniature chubby-cheeked Henry sitting in laps and splashing in puddles and covering himself in snow. Henry and Regina under palm trees, waving from the beach. Henry’s building something in the sand and Regina is in a bikini with a sarong, sunbathing beside him. Emma looks at that picture for a long time for no apparent reason. There’s lots of photos of Henry on elementary school soccer teams and wearing birthday hats and waving from balconies and Emma realizes that this kid has traveled a lot, more than most of the adults she knows. Younger Emma would probably be jealous, but Present Emma is just plain impressed.

There’s other things, too. Regina’s kitchen is huge, immaculate, the obvious center of the house. The living room and foyer have the feeling that they’re barely used, but clean as the kitchen is, you can tell it’s where this family logs its hours. There’s pictures on the fridge, some of them hand-drawn and dated from eight or nine years ago. Henry and Mommy, Henry Loves Mommy. No take-out menus -- Emma has the feeling that Regina is the kind of mother who insists on cooking all the family meals. There’s a few recipes written in Regina’s handwriting that are pinned to the calendar, probably planned for the week. None of this is a surprise to Emma at all.

She’d already seen Henry’s room briefly the other night, all the bright colors and bookshelves and a rug that has glow in the dark stars on it, but the door to Regina’s room had stayed firmly closed. Emma has a silent argument with herself about the ethics of nannydom before finally opening the door and peering inside.

The bed is unmade, which is not something she’d expected. There’s a pair of heels on the floor, and clothes on the chair next to the window, and every little thing that isn’t perfectly in order makes Emma’s chest feel extra tight. Just as she’s about to step inside, the door downstairs opens and the voice of an adolescent boy calls out, “Hello?”

 

 

 

 

Henry’s already poured himself a glass of milk by the time she gets downstairs, stirring a generous serving of Abuelita syrup into it until it turns dark brown.

“Weird, I had you pinned for a strawberry milk kid.”

Henry makes a face, takes a huge gulp of milk. “Pink milk, gross.”

“What’s wrong with pink? You know what happens to little boys who think that pink is gross? They develop very bad opinions on social issues and live vicariously through professional athletes. Smart and pretty girls absolutely hate them. Very nasty stuff.”

“I like pink,” Henry says, matter of factly. “I like strawberries, too. But strawberries aren’t pink. It’s weird when something that’s supposed to taste like strawberries doesn’t even look like a strawberry.”

“Point taken.” She pours herself a glass of milk, too, and slides it over to Henry. “Hit me with that chocolate, please.” 

He gives her a skeptical look as he stirs. “Adults don’t like this stuff.”

“Kid, it’s called Kahlua and in about 10 years, it will change your life.”

The way he smiles at her bad jokes gives her this feeling, like maybe she’s not doing half-goddamned-bad.

 

 

 

 

The first time she has to take a punch is when she’s 7. Her foster dad is a real piece of shit and she knows it because her foster mom is always saying so. The other kids she’s been placed with get out of the house as often as they can, but she’s younger, smaller, not as fast to hide. Even at 7, some instinct in her is always telling her to stand her ground. Some boy at school keeps picking on her and finally she can’t take it anymore, she shoves him into the wall during recess and walks away when he cries. He doesn’t even fight back. 

When she gets home, the rest of the house already knows. The kids clear out when her foster mom starts screaming. Somebody grabs her by the hair and throws her into the other room. She didn’t know that she’d be able to survive a grown man’s fist but she does, she does and it teaches her something. Emma Swan’s a survivor, a fighter, a son of a bitch. She’ll take whatever it is and give it back twice as hard.

 

 

 

 

“Arms up! Shoulders back! I want those legs apart, ready to go. Right now you need to be bracing yourself like it’s the only thing that matters because it is.”

The kid is wearing an oversized football helmet and a pair of swim trunks. He’s staring at Emma like she’s about to smack him in the face, which, technically, she is. The only thing is that she’s wearing four pairs of mittens and holding a pillow, which hasn’t alleviated his terrified expression.

“I thought you were going to teach me how to fight,” he yells from the interior of the laughably huge helmet. 

“First rule of fighting is knowing how to take a hit.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t get hit if I hit them first. Maybe me and the bully could just take turns.”

“And maybe bullies don’t wait for you to take your turn before they smack you in the head. Stand still, kid.”

“Can we go back to doing warm-ups? I think I need more warm-ups.”

“We’ve already warmed up twice.”

“I think I just have one of those bodies that is really tense all the time.” Henry makes a dramatic gesture and pretends to stagger in place. “My muscles are seizing! I have to do more jumping jacks.”

“No more jumping jacks. It’s time.”

“I think I need acupuncture before I do this. Mom says it’s important to take a holistic approach first, because American medicine was designed by incompetent white men.”

“Kid, this is happening. You just have to accept it.”

“But Emma, I don’t think --”

 _Thwack._ Emma gives Henry’s helmet the gentlest of taps, or would if she hadn’t tripped in the process of tapping him and instead pushed him to the ground.

“Oh, _shit_. Henry?”

He raises one arm from the ground. “Present.”

“I was just going to tap you, I swear.”

There’s an angry groan in response.

“You need a hand getting up?”

Henry lifts up the helmet and shoots her a look. “Nope,” he says, letting the helmet fall back down over his face. _Like mother, like son._

Back on his feet, Henry assumes what Emma can only imagine is his fighting stance. Legs apart, fists raised, and the nastiest look a ten year old can manage. 

“Uh, kid? We’re just doing defensive today. Nothing else.”

“I can do it,” Henry says through gritted teeth. “Do it again.”

“What happened to the holistic approach?”

And at this, Henry lets out a noise Emma thinks might come out of an angry baby bear, and charges her. She braces her body at the last minute and instead of being tackled to the ground, he’s got his mittened hands around her waist and his helmet sunk into her chest -- a bit hard, she might add. She’s holding him an arms’ length away with both hands as he struggles against her.

“Well, that’s one way to do it. You wanna take a chill pill and park it in the grass for a second?”

He gives one last push and then goes limp in her arms. The giant helmet tilts to look up at her and she sees the slightest bit of defeat in his expression.

“I can’t even knock a girl over,” he says, sighing, and then collapsing into the perfectly green grass of the backyard. 

“Hey, do I look like a girl to you?”

He gives her a oneover, and she can tell he’s wondering if it’s a trick question. “Yes?”

“Well, I’m not. I’m a grown-ass woman, and a professionally trained one at that. Don’t get down on yourself for not being able to get the best of a professional.”

Henry pulls off the helmet, throwing it unsuccessfully across the lawn towards the patio. “You tripped.”

“So?”

He shrugs, sighs. “You don’t work with kids a lot, huh?”

“ _Technically_ this is my first gig involving children, but I have a lot of experience.”

“What experience?”

“Are you secretly a junior HR department? I have a lot of experience as a child, I was a child for like 17 years.”

Henry throws his mittened hands in the air. “Being a kid doesn’t mean you are good with kids! Everyone would be good with kids if that was the case. It doesn’t make sense!” 

Emma realizes part of that sentence hurt a little worse than the others. “Am I not good with kids? You can be honest, kid.”

Henry screws up his face for a moment, covering most of it with his hands, the most childlike gesture he’s made since she met him. He peeks at her from between his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he says, wincing a little. “You’re not bad. I’m just...Mom says I get a little sarcastic when I’m scared. It’s a defense mechanism or something.” He bites his lip. “Are you mad at me?”

Emma grins, pulling him in by the shoulder for a sidehug. “Kid, you are going to find out very soon that it takes a _lot_ to get me mad. Also, knowing your mother, I am not even remotely surprised that her spawn uses sarcasm as a weapon.”

 

 

 

 

There’s a shoebox on the kitchen table.

“This is your _homework_?”

Henry hands her the paper again, shrugging. “Yeah, why?”

“‘Choose a pivotal scene from the book and make a diorama depicting the event.’ What teacher uses a word like pivotal?”

“It’s our vocabulary word this week.” Henry blinks at her. “You didn’t have early SAT prep at your school?”

“Kid, we didn’t even have lunch prep. Tater tots all day, every day.” She finds herself absentmindedly fingering the gluestick. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

Henry’s already glueing fake grass to the shoebox. “I guess.”

“Is your mom seeing anyone?”

“Like, a date?” Henry shrugs again, concentrating on his shoebox. “Nope. Mom says she doesn’t have time for anyone but me and her job.”

“So she doesn’t have a boyfriend?”

Henry laughs. “She’s never had a boyfriend.”

“This is going to sound totally crazy, but the other night when she came over to my place to drop off my--”

“Abuela.”

“What?”

“Abuela, my grandma was here.” Henry is gluing a dinosaur upside down. “That’s why she was able to leave me here.”

Emma tries not to drop her jaw in front of this kid. “You are really goddamned intuitive, buddy.”

Henry shrugs again, gluing another dinosaur in place, this one on the other wall of the shoebox. The physics of this diorama are a bit questionable. “She told me I should never go over to your place. She said it was, um...” He thinks for a bit. “Hazardous.”

“Wait, what?”

“I don’t know. Can you hand me the gluestick please? You’re kind of destroying it.”

 

 

 

 

Emma drops Henry off at his friend’s house. He waves when he gets out of the bug, smiles like a normal, happy kid. Which he is, technically, as happy and normal as she’s seen, and it shouldn’t be a surprise to her anymore that there are children out there who get to smile all the time, who have loving homes that don’t change constantly, who have SAT prep in the sixth grade and dumb little uniforms.

Regina’s meant to pick him up, limiting their interaction that day to the sparring in the morning.

“Be safe, kid.”

“Don’t hit anyone in the face,” he says, and grins like his mother.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ruby insists on taking her out for drinks as soon as she gets back from work -- “We _have_ to make it for Happy Hour, I refuse to pay more than 5 fucking dollars for a margarita” -- and she still has glue and glitter on her elbow and that stupid song from The Lego Movie stuck in her head because Henry wanted to play it ten times and --

“You’re not even paying attention to what I’m saying.” Ruby snaps her fingers in the air, then waves her hands in front of Emma’s face. The tiny umbrella in her drink flies around.

“Shit, sorry. What are we talking about?”

“You, Emma. We are talking about you and the fact that your phone has buzzed twice with Regina Mills’ messages.”

“Dude, why does this continue to weird you out? I have a phone, she has a phone. People are communicating on phones these days, it’s this crazy thing.”

“You _like_ her. You think she’s hot and you’re into her and you’re not admitting it to yourself, which is why you texting her outside of work is a big deal.” Ruby makes quotation marks with her fingers. “You’re doing the ‘straight girl thing’ again.”

Emma nearly spits out her whiskey. “What the hell is a ‘straight girl thing’?”

“You fall for straight girls and it fucks you up. Every damn time, Swan, I’m serious. Some girl shows up and you’re all puppy eyes and angry determined muscle building. You start drinking those shitty protein shakes again.”

Emma ignores the fact there is a protein shake in her car right now. “Regina’s not _some girl_. She’s not a girl, she’s a woman. It feels weird to call her a girl, it’s like calling a rose a weed or something.”

Ruby’s eyebrow raises to an astronomical height. “Do you have a tape recorder? Please tell me you are actively recording and listening to yourself.”

Emma forms a protective stance around her whiskey, frowning into it. “I work for her, Ruby. Seriously.”

“You called me yesterday and freaked out for _an hour_ because you thought she had some boyfriend over the night she came over to your house.”

“Because that’s irresponsible, leaving your kid with some random guy! Obviously I am concerned for Henry.”

Ruby glares at Emma over her second margarita. “I’m dead serious about listening to yourself. You sound like a lunatic.”

“ _I_ sound like a lunatic? You’re the one implying I want to do it with the mayor.”

“Which you definitely do, for the record.”

“Am I attracted to her? Sure, everyone is. Would I bang her? Most definitely, but--” Emma lowers her voice considerably, realizing she is yelling about having sex with the city’s mayor in a very public place. “But she is the mayor, and she is my employer, and it’s not going to happen. I can’t have a crush because having a crush is pointless. So I don’t. If she showed up at my door and said hello Emma, let’s copulate, I’d be so down. But I also feel that way about ScarJo and it’s not actively ruining my life, so who cares?”

“So you admit you like her.”

“I don’t _like_ her. I would just make out with her if she wanted me to make out with her.”

Ruby orders a third margarita. “Emma Swan, you are so brilliantly stupid that it is driving me to drink.”

 

 

 

 


	5. in which the adorable precocious child may be onto something here

 

 

 

 

“Okay, I need you to promise that you will not freak out.” Emma is straddling the door like a gymnastic event and Regina is standing on the front step, looking extremely skeptical.

“Miss Swan, this is literally the last thing I want to hear from the nanny when I come home from work. Please let me through the door to my own house, which I have every right to enter.”

“You have to promise, though.”

Regina’s holding a bag of groceries and Emma, on any other day, would be taking them from her as usual, trailing her to the kitchen and helping her unpack them and sitting at the stool while Henry gives his mother a laundry list of excellent grades and mediocre performances in gym class. And then, on any other day, Regina would start dinner and tell Emma she’s welcome to stay, and, on any other day, on _every_ single day, Emma would say she’s actually got something going on, but thanks anyway, she’ll be on her way now.

Not that she has ever had something going on. Not that there’s ever been anything preventing her from staying for dinner besides the memory replaying in her head of being 10 years old and bringing home a kitten that she’d found in a box, and her foster mother telling her that she really shouldn’t get attached, that getting attached is dangerous and distance is safe, and hadn’t Emma relearned that lesson so many times in her life? Wasn’t her mantra to leave as soon as she knew what they smelled like without perfume on? Staying for dinner would very clearly be breaking that rule.

Today, though, Emma is giving Regina her best version of puppy eyes and Regina’s face could not be more incredulous.

“Miss Swan,” Regina says, this time through gritted teeth, and Emma values her own life just enough to let her through.

Henry’s waiting in the kitchen, cradling an extra large glass of chocolate milk. Everything about the scene is completely normal, besides his --

“Green hair,” Regina says, matter-of-factly. 

Henry holds up five fingers. “I don’t have tattoos, a drug problem, any weird piercings, an older girlfriend, or...um...” He looks over his mother’s shoulder to where Emma is mouthing the words. “Oh, a gang affiliation, right!”

Regina’s still holding the grocery bag, but she looks thoroughly unfazed. Emma can’t tell if this is a good or bad thing. “Am I supposed to be impressed that my ten year old doesn’t have a drug problem?”

“Emma said to tell you those things in case you needed some perspective.”

Regina looks over her shoulder to Emma, an eyebrow raised. “Perspective, of course.”

“Emma also said to tell you that there is a logical explanation for all this, in case logic appeals to you.”

“And I’d love to hear that logical explanation, from one or both of you.” Regina gestures to Emma. “Preferably the adult who is meant to be responsible for my son, but beggars can’t be choosers, can we?”

Emma takes a deep breath. “It’s Spirit Day tomorrow, and we thought we would take the spirit to another level--”

“And you’ve certainly taken it there, Miss Swan.”

“We thought the hair dye was temporary,” Henry chimes in, but Emma gives him an “ix-nay on the elp-hay” look.

“I misread the label. It’s 100% my bad, Regina. If you’re going to blame anyone, it’s got to be me.”

Regina gives Emma a pursed smile, which is probably one of the more terrifying things she could do at this point. “Oh, that was never a question, Miss Swan.” She runs her hand through her son’s hair, gives his mop a little shake. “Luckily, Henry, your nanny did such a poor dye job that we can cut most of it right off. Hop in the shower and I’ll trim it when you’re done.” 

Henry doesn’t need to be told twice. He gives his mother a desperately strong hug and runs upstairs. Emma does not have the benefit of this option. As soon as Henry’s left, Regina sets the groceries on the counter and Emma can’t think of anything else but to help her unpack them.

“Regina, I just want to say--”

“It’s fine, Miss Swan,” and Regina’s already started to boil hot water, and she’s taking the groceries right from Emma’s hands instead of putting them away. “In the future, try not to make any permanent alterations to my child. I didn’t mention that upfront, but consider it a tenet of the job.”

“Henry was really set on winning that school spirit award.”

Regina lets out a noise that Emma could _swear_ is a laugh, although that might just be optimistic thinking on her part. “Surely you could have bought him a green hat or something.”

“The kid’s enthusiasm is pretty contagious. I was ready to dye my hair, too, just to keep up with him. Maybe just the tips, but still.”

“How alternative of you.”

“It wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve done to my head.”

Regina smirks a little. “I’m sure, Miss Swan.” She’s slicing tomatoes now, one of many kitchen activities that Emma finds hypnotic to watch. “Of course, what’s interesting on you is a flaming target on Henry. I don’t want to give these bullies any more reasons to pick on him.”

“Who knows, he could have started a fad. Kids are weird and unpredictable. There’s a chance they would have thought it was cool.” 

“I don’t take chances where my son’s safety is concerned.”

Emma watches Regina, the way she concentrates on her hands, the way she’s not looking at Emma. “I’m sorry I messed up. I know it’s not exactly my bag, but I’m trying not to be completely shitty at the nannying thing.”

Regina pauses in her slicing. When they make eye contact, it makes something in Emma’s chest hurt. “You’re not completely shitty.”

“I dyed your kid’s hair green. I let him eat ice cream for lunch, I taught him terrible names for his classmates, and we watched part of Dirty Dancing on television before I realized it was Dirty Dancing. We were driving to the mall and we saw one of those little shits that always gives him a hard time and I told Henry we should throw our fries at him. I instructed a child to throw things at another child.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “And did you?”

“No, and obviously Henry couldn’t hit an elephant from a foot away, but still. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Well,” Regina says, and resumes her slicing. Emma notices the smallest of smirks playing at her lips. “You’re not a terrible nanny, Miss Swan.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re not. Don’t ever become a hairdresser, though.”

Emma steals a tomato slice. “There go my dreams of opening a salon and dyeing the masses.”

Regina snorts. “So, are you staying for dinner, or do you have another half-baked excuse?”

Emma knows she has just turned at least a dozen shades of red. “I really do have to--”

Regina waves a hand, doesn’t look up from the vegetables. “It’s fine, Miss Swan. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

“Why don’t you ever stay for dinner?”

“Because I have a very busy schedule. Do you see coconut milk anywhere?”

Emma is pushing the cart down the narrow aisle of this bougie-ass grocery store in this bougie-ass neighborhood where the shelves are made from sustainable products and the person who greeted them at the door had more piercings than all of Emma’s exes put together. 

“But you _don’t_ have a very busy schedule,” Henry says, frowning. He keeps running his hand through his newly shortened hair, only the tiniest of green left from last week’s dye fiasco. “Yesterday you told me that you finished an entire series on Netflix in two days.”

“The name of this aisle is just called ‘vegan’. What the heck is that supposed to tell me about the contents of the aisle?” Emma swerves into the next aisle, where she could at least purchase a surplus of bulk lentils. “Also, to elaborate, I finished that series because my roommate is not considerate about sound control and I needed to play something loud to drown out her noises.”

“Was she doing grown-up stuff with her friend?”

“Oh yeah, taxes, balancing their checkbook, the whole nine yards.”

Henry makes a face. “I never want to be a grown-up. It’s the most boring thing ever.” Like most ten year olds, his train of thought is rerouted in a millisecond. “You should come to dinner tonight. Mom’s making you do the groceries anyway. You should come and see what they taste like, right?”

“Trust me, if she hadn’t given me explicit instructions, we’d be getting our produce from a gas station right now. Any grocery store that requires you to show them your membership card is not my thing.”

“It’s a co-op,” Henry says, and finds a papaya, the last of the ingredients on Regina’s list. “Mom says co-ops are better because we can trust the source.”

“Your mom has trust issues. Don’t tell her I said that, but it’s true.”

“I won’t tell her if you come to dinner tonight.” 

Emma halts the cart mid-aisle. “Are you blackmailing me?”

Henry shrugs. “I think you’re actually the one with trust issues. You act weird around my mom and you don’t like doing things that are family things.”

“Remind me again where you got your degree in psychology. And just to confirm, you are still blackmailing me?”

Henry grins. “You’ll have to come to dinner and see.”

“Unbelievable, kid. Fricking unbelievable.”

 

 

 

 

So when Regina asks her if she’s staying for dinner, Emma sets down the last of the groceries and sighs.

“Yes, I am.”

Regina stops midway through pouring the rice. “You are?”

“Your son is very convincing.”

Regina winces, though she’s grinning a little. “He isn’t paying you, is he?”

“I’d say it’s more like friendly threatening.”

There’s the smallest of chuckles from Regina, and then she’s back to cooking. “I can’t imagine where he gets it from,” she says, and Emma’s definitely smiling this time.

 

 

 

 

Dinner’s off to a relatively normal start -- Emma’s only spilled something twice and Regina’s poured herself an appetizer of merlot -- when Henry stands up at the dinner table.

“I’m glad you’re both here,” he says, his face contorted into as much seriousness as a fourth grader can muster. “I have something to tell you.”

Regina’s glancing over at Emma like she knows something about this, which she very clearly does not. “We’re listening, sweetie,” she says cautiously, even though there’s that big maternal smile on her face. _Maybe it’s the merlot._

“I wanted to wait until we were all together to tell you, because I have big news.”

“Did you get fired?” Emma asks. “Did the big merger at work go through? Are you getting a divorce?” 

Regina shoots her a look, but she’s most definitely fighting a grin. Henry nods at his mother as if thanking her for her cooperation.

“I got a part in the school play. Actually, I got a pretty big part. I’m gonna be Peter Pan.”

Regina nearly pulls an Emma and spills her drink. Emma starts a slow clap.

“You didn’t need to blackmail me to make me come to dinner! I totally would have come for news like that, kid.”

“Wait, he _blackmailed_ you?”

Emma waves it off, shrugging. “Eh, so your son’s a budding crook. But he’s a budding crook with the lead in the school play. Priorities, Regina.”

 

 

 

 

Emma’s late to her own class, partially because the bug wouldn’t start, partially because on the way to work she stopped by the craft store and there was the best, most sparkliest green fabric in the window and okay, she can’t sew to save her goddamned life, but if she _could_ \--

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you are taking this nanny thing a little too seriously.”

Ruby’s meeting her at Fit Royale for lunch at the bistro and smoothie stand, mostly because she gets free lunches there and Ruby wants a free lunch. It’s also because Ruby’s new favorite pasttime is telling Emma that she’s gone googley-eyed for a certain mayor.

“It’s a job. I should take my job seriously. This is not a weird thing, Ruby.”

“Yesterday you were talking about the importance of child vaccinations. And _this_ \--” Ruby pulls, with a flourish, a book from Emma’s backpack, “Is the ‘guide to helping your child successfully navigate the transition from childhood to adolescence.’ Word for word, I’m just reading the title here. This is disturbing, Emma.”

Emma takes a gulp of her protein smoothie. “There’s some legit shit in there, dude. Did you know that most nine year olds don’t even--”

“Nope, no thank you. Not from Emma Swan, who could not keep a goldfish alive for three hours.”

“It’s not my fault the car got so hot.”

“Why was the goldfish _in_ the car, Emma?!”

“I was taking it for a ride. But whatever, that doesn’t matter. Henry’s not a goldfish, and he hasn’t gotten his ass kicked yet, so I’m doing a pretty good job.”

“And spending time with his mother is just a perk of the job, right?”

Emma knows she’s blushing because Ruby’s a stupid idiot and whatever, _whatever_. “Whatever.”

Ruby sits back in her chair, looking all too satisfied. “That’s what I thought,” she says, grinning triumphantly and taking a loud slurp of her smoothie. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

 

 

 

 

“Why do we have to watch this one?”

But Henry’s already shushing her and glaring from his side of the couch, doing a fairly impressive imitation of his mother. “It’s _research_ , Emma.”

“We’ve seen the animated classic Peter Pan, the nineties kickass reboot Hook--”

“Also known as the best reboot ever,” Henry says, and they high-five. 

“Right, and the one with Jeremy Sumpter, which was, what? Did we decide if it was any good?”

Henry shrugs. “Nothing new in the story, but cool effects.”

“But this one, this one enrages me.” She waves her hand at the television, where a bunch of grown-ass adults are pretending to be children. “I fricking _hate_ Mary Martin.”

“How come girls always play Peter Pan?” Henry thinks for a moment, and then frowns. “Do you think they cast me as Peter Pan because I’m like a girl?”

“First, there’s nothing wrong with being like a girl, because there’s nothing wrong with being a girl.”

“My mom’s a feminist, Emma. I know, okay?”

“Well, consider that your reminder. As for the Peter Pan ladies, I think it’s just because boys’ voices change too much when they’re Peter Pan’s age.”

“I never want my voice to change.”

“Really? It’s totally natural, kid.”

“Yeah, but then I can’t sing Beyonce anymore.”

“Excellent point.”

They high-five again.

 

 

 

 


	6. in which she meets the mother

 

 

 

 

“I need you to stay late tomorrow night,” Regina says, and with that Emma has officially moved from bodyguard to tentatively babysitter to actual legitimate nanny. 

Emma’s on her way out the door, one of Regina’s _quesitos_ hanging out of her mouth. Regina’s gotten into the habit of leaving food around for Emma to take home, since she insists the guardian of her son “not suffer from malnutrition.” 

“Uh, how late?”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Do you have somewhere important to be, Miss Swan?”

“Technically, no.” Emma knows she’s leaving crumbs and filling on the floor, so she lifts a sleeve to catch them. This is one of the more juvenile things she could do, and the look from Regina confirms it.

“So you’re free to stay then, good.” She waves a few fingers through the air, as if this is the end of it. It’s all very Miranda Streep from that movie Snow loves so much, the one about the clothes magazine or whatever, Emma fell asleep halfway through, but. You know.

“Are we talking dinnertime, or later, or after midnight? I only ask because my landlord sometimes bolts the door around midnight, because for a while we had this guy who used to disguise himself as a pizza delivery guy and--”

Regina holds up a finger. “The short version, Miss Swan.”

“Weirdo sneaks into my building, leaves bags of feces in multiple stairwells. Landlord takes evasive measures.”

Regina kneads her temples in a self-loathing way. “I don’t know why I ask, I really don’t. Yes, Miss Swan, it will likely be after midnight. It depends on how the date goes.”

Emma feels her stomach drop from its normal physical position to somewhere south of her ankles. In fact, if her stomach was currently playing hopscotch with the soles of her feet, she would not be at all surprised. She almost chokes on the last bite of quesito, but recovers in as nonchalant a manner as she can muster.

“The _date_?”

“Yes, Miss Swan. Please don’t act so surprised. I did not win a Nobel Prize.”

“Should I congratulate you?”

“I don’t know, should you? It may come as a shock, but I am fully capable of sharing pleasantries with other human beings.”

“Right, it just...uh, Henry kind of implied that it’s been a while.”

Regina nearly drops her Blackberry. “He what?”

“Shit, look at the time!” Emma gapes at the watch that does not actually exist on her wrist, and nods towards the door. “I’d better get home before Mary Margaret does that thing she’s not supposed to do at that certain time.”

“Miss Swan, before you race out the door with your tail between your legs, one more thing.”

Emma stops in her tracks, sighs. “Sure, Regina.”

“My mother will be here tomorrow night. I usually leave her in charge of Henry, but he’s insisting you be there.” Regina softens a bit. “He’s gotten very attached to you, for the record. He won’t even let me rehearse lines with him. He says that’s Emma’s job.”

Emma has to laugh a little at that. “It’s because I do all the other voices. I make Captain Hook sound like RuPaul.”

“Well, he appreciates it.” Regina does that thing where she smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes Emma sweat a little bit. “ _I_ appreciate it, too.”

“All part of the job,” Emma says, and she hopes her grin isn’t as out of control as her heart feels right now.

 

 

 

 

A few things Emma has determined about Regina’s mother:

1\. She is kind of a bitch.

2\. She is clearly responsible for 95% of Regina’s issues, especially all that closeted stunted emotional bullshit.

3\. She might actually... _like_ Emma? 

This last thing is something that Emma isn’t sure isn’t just wishful thinking on her part, but the old broad was all too eager to give her a kiss on both cheeks (which is already too much fancy and too much physical contact for Emma) and smile like she knew all of Emma’s secrets.

“So you’re the one my daughter has entrusted with the life of my grandson.” 

It is not a question. It is a statement, an I’ve-already-sniffed-you-out-and-you-aren’t-gonna-be-able-to-explain-anything-to-me statement. She gives Emma a one-over, but that smile remains. The lady’s in a sweater set and pearls, which would only be more WASP-y if her entire ensemble wasn’t black.

“Guilty,” Emma says, shrugging. She tries to play it off like this is a joke and they’re on equal ground here, just two old buds hanging out with one of the old bud’s grandson, but not so much.

“Well, it’s not difficult to see what she sees in you.”

_So that’s where Regina gets her possibly insulting vagueness from. Great._

Cora keeps looking her up and down, like she expects Emma to reveal her worst traits on a neon sign across her forehead or something. Instead, Emma stops herself from squirming and gives Henry a high five when he comes into the kitchen.

“Hey, kid. How’s my Lost Boy today?”

Henry’s wearing a green beanie, a green hoodie, and a pair of shiny green leggings that he would only buy if Emma pretended they were for her. Thus Emma had to wrestle herself into a pair of girls XL sparkly leggings in the middle of a Target, and then walk out in them like the grown-ass woman she is. Henry wouldn’t stop laughing for the entire car ride home.

“I’m going method today,” Henry says very seriously, pouring himself a glass of milk. “If you hear any banging upstairs, it’s me flying.”

Cora gives her grandson a smile that might be sweet and might be poison. _A Mills trait, apparently._ “Honey, that sounds awfully dangerous.”

“It’s fine, _Abuela_. Emma says I have to do dangerous things sometimes, or else I’ll never know my personal limits.”

Cora looks to Emma, who tries to shrug again. “He _has_ gotten really good in lessons,” Emma attempts, although she’s starting to realize that it’s even harder to get past this Mills than her younger version.

“I can defend myself against _anything_ ,” Henry brags. “Emma taught me how to defeat a velociraptor in case we end up in Jurassic Park. You gotta go for the throat and disarm them with your body weight.” He stops stirring the chocolate into his milk, scrunches up his face. “Oh, I forgot. I’m not Henry. I am Pan.” He stares intensely at the chocolate milk and then puts on a very deep, gravely voice. “Pan doesn’t like chocolate milk.”

“Why does Pan have the Batman voice?”

Henry gives Emma a dismissive wave. “Do not question the Pan.” And he pulls his hoodie over his head and runs upstairs. Cora turns to Emma.

“I suppose you’re responsible for that.”

“I did buy him the sparkly leggings, yes.”

“He’s a brand new Enrique.” Cora says, and with a smile like that, Emma can’t really tell if she’s down with the newness that is a happier, more confident Henry. Emma doesn’t care either way; seeing the little goober grin and jump around in green leggings is exactly what makes her so damn proud these days. 

So why is some part of her still desperate to impress the mother of her employer? It’s not like they’re dating, Emma, sheesh.

 

 

 

 

“Okay, Pan. You need to give me the 411.”

Henry is jumping from his bed to his floor, arms spread like little green toothpicks. He gives a triumphant cry and then leaps gracelessly onto the carpet, scattering a few action figures. He looks up at Emma, shrugging.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“The downlow, the nitty gritty. I need to know who your mom is out on a date with tonight. I want his name, his occupation, anything you can give me. His shoe size, if you have it.”

Henry gives Emma a skeptical shake of the head. “Aren’t you supposed to be hanging out with _Abuela_?”

“Your mother only pays me to babysit you, not her mother. Anyway, your grandmother’s watching some soap opera your mother DVRd for her.”

“Those are her _telenovelas_ ,” Henry says. “She’ll be occupied for at least an hour.”

“Good, so we can dish the dirt.”

Henry rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to tell on my mom.”

“It’s not telling on her. You’re actually telling on the dude who asked her out, and he deserves it.”

Henry gives her a look that is straight out of Regina’s gigantic book of sass. “You’re jealous.”

“What? No way. I am concerned about your mother being kidnapped by a stranger, maybe, but I am not _jealous_.”

Henry jumps onto Emma, giving her a stifling little hug. She’s not sure what just happened.

“What the heck was that for?”

“You like my mom. You _like_ like my mom, and that’s probably hard for you, so I’m giving you a hug. A bro hug, like you taught me. Bros always take care of each other’s feelings. That’s what you said.”

Emma is not entirely sure how to respond to any of this. “I don’t _like_ like your mom. We’re just friends. Obviously it would be ridiculous for me to see your mother as more than just a friend, since I’m a girl and she’s a girl and--”

Henry could not look more unimpressed. “Emma, I’m ten. I know what a lesbian is.”

“Uh, well, that’s--”

“His name is Robin. Mom didn’t tell me what he does. He’s got like a beard, sort of, and pretty good hair. He did that thing grown-ups do where they really want you to like them, so he called me ‘sport’ and gave me a baseball and kept asking me what I like about school.”

Emma blinks. “He gave you a baseball?”

Henry fishes it out from under his bed. “Yeah, see?” He places the brand new baseball in her hand. “What the heck am I supposed to do with that?”

“Beats me. What a doofus.”

“Yeah, he’s a doofus. He was wearing a scarf.”

“Ugh, that’s so pretentious. I hate that.”

“He’s gross, Emma. He’s the worst. I don’t like him at all, I promise!”

And Henry makes a face and sticks out his tongue to show just how much he thinks this Robin character is the definition of yuck, and if it’s put on, maybe even a little bit, just so Emma won’t feel so bad, even if it’s just because he wants her to be happy and even if it’s not entirely true, even if this Robin guy is a stand-up dude and a handsome fucker and someone Regina might even like a lot --

Emma doesn’t realize until it’s too late how much she wants it to be true.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emma’s standing in the back garden, phone tucked against her ear. She realizes she’s unconsciously hopping from one foot to the other like a nervous teenager.

“Hello?”

“Uh, Regina? You wanted me to call?”

“That’s terrible! He’s sick? Does he have a fever?”

“Oh, wow. This guy must be a real loser, huh?”

“If he’s throwing up, I don’t want to leave you there with him. Did he ask for me?”

“This is where Henry gets his theatrical talent from, I’m guessing.”

“Of course, I’m on my way. No, it’s no trouble, Miss Swan. Thank you so much for staying with him. I’ll be right there.”

 _Click_.

And sure, yeah, there’s a pretty gigantic section of Emma that feels like she just won something just now.

 

 

 

 

“Okay, even Pan has to sleep sometimes. You’re going to bed.”

Henry’s standing in the empty bathtub, fully clothes, hands on his hips. “Pan does not sleep. Pan does not fear the night.”

“Kid, if you’re not sawing Z’s by the time your mother gets home, I’m straight up fired.”

“Mom wouldn’t fire you. She _likes_ you.”

But Cora’s walking past, and Emma makes the slashy-handy noise at her throat, and Henry nods solemnly, giving her a thumbs up. 

“I’ll make you a deal, kid. You get in bed, and I’ll let you listen to ‘Flawless’.”

This gets Henry’s attention.

“The whole thing? The remix with Nicki Minaj?”

Emma sighs. “Sure, fine.”

“The real version?”

“No, obviously the edited version! You’re ten, don’t push it. Get in the bed or no Beyonce.”

Henry’s in his bed in a record five minutes, teeth brushed and everything. Cora chuckles when she and Emma are the only ones in the kitchen.

“That was impressive,” she says, takes a sip of merlot. _Like mother, like daughter._

“He’s a good kid, he makes it easy.” Emma nods at the wine. “Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

“Oh, honey,” and at this, Cora is chuckling again, literally clutching her pearls. “My driver will pick me up.”

“Oh, sure. Right.”

_Emma Swan, trapped in Bougie Fucking Land._

 

 

 

 

Emma hears the low purr of Regina’s Benz in the drive around 9. Cora’s just gone home and Emma’s had a shot of the sambuca she found in the freezer last week. She stays in the kitchen, listens to the front door open and close, the clicking of heels on the foyer tiles. Regina appears in the doorway, low-cut dress the color of wine and the same color on her lips, and Emma’s grateful for the alcohol.

“Hey,” she says, and Regina smirks.

“Can you do me a favor?” And Regina’s leaning over her to reach into the freezer, her front passing over Emma’s shoulder, brushing skin against fabric. Emma can smell her, the fucking heady _sweetness_ of her, and it makes her stomach flip. Regina sits on the stool across from her, the cold bottle of sambuca in her hand. “Do a shot of this with me, so I don’t feel so ridiculous.”

Emma feigns surprise. “Oh, wow. Never seen that before.”

“I used to love licorice as a little girl. My mother wouldn’t let me have it, but I’d steal it from a glass jar in her parlor. Now I love sambuca.” Regina pours them both matching shots, clinks hers against Emma’s. “ _La penúltima._ ”

“Better in than out,” Emma says, and then swallows. “Christ, that is awful.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” 

Emma grins. “I’d know all about that, trust me. I’ve been told by more than one person that I was exactly that.”

There’s a slightly mischievous smile playing at Regina’s lips. “I’ll assume they hadn’t acquired your particular taste, then?”

“Let’s not play coy, Regina. I’m kind of a mess.”

Regina’s already pouring the second round of shots. “That’s not necessarily true, Miss Swan. Yes, when I first met you, I thought you were an unprofessional miscreant, but you have this amazing talent of growing on people.” Regina slides the shot towards Emma, her hand over the top. Emma’s fingers reach around Regina’s to take it from her, and it’s one of those things that _matters_ somehow, even if it doesn’t. “You’ve grown on Henry and I. Not that Henry needed much growing. He seemed to love you from the first day.”

“Henry’s not too hard. Give that kid an inch and he’ll love you for a mile.”

Regina smiles. “He’s always been that way. I’ll never understand how he has a heart that big, coming from someone like me.”

Emma gives her a look, but Regina’s pushing her shotglass against Emma’s, tipping it back again. Emma has to forego breathing to keep up.

“So,” Emma says, staring at the now-empty glass and trying not to gag. “Should I even ask about the date?”

Regina laughs, slides her heels off and lets them fall to the floor. She pulls one foot under her on the stool. “He’s wonderful. He’s handsome, charming, intelligent, very kind. I think he’s interested in me, or he wouldn’t have made such an effort with Henry.”

“But you bailed.”

Regina’s staring straight ahead, her hands twisting in her hair. Her voice is considerably softer. “I did, yes.”

“So there must be something wrong with him.”

“No, he’s perfectly fine.” Regina sighs. “I’m afraid it’s me that falls short.”

Emma snorts. “How the hell do you figure that?”

“Well, I wasn’t interested in him for starters. I sat there and I didn’t feel anything, not even when he was smiling his winning smile or talking about his charity work.”

“You don’t have to be interested in every attractive person that sits in front of you at dinner! Hell, Ryan Gosling could be naked on the counter and I wouldn’t give a shit. Part of that is probably that I’m _gay_ , but still, it’s--”

Regina’s eyes light up for a moment, and she grins. “I knew it,” she says quickly, and she’s already doing another shot of the sambuca. Emma quickly downs her own. 

“Not exactly a big secret, Regina.”

“Well, you never told me. Obviously I knew, but--”

“How could you know? What, was my leather jacket screaming ‘lesbian’ or something?”

Regina rolls her eyes, as if this is an incredibly obvious thing and Emma is very much behind. “You have an air about you.”

“The fuck kind of New Age bullshit is that? Does the air smell like Axe and rainbow suspenders?”

“There’s something harder, more dominating...I don’t know. I can feel it in you sometimes. It’s this energy, it’s almost aggressive.”

Emma can’t think of anything to say to that, mostly because all the blood has gone straight to her fucking groin, so she pours another two shots for them.

“Are you what they would call a top, then?”

And at this, Emma straight up chokes on the sambuca. Turns out that anise-flavored alcohol tastes even worse getting stuck in your windpipe, and it goddamned stings.

“Regina, do you really want to ask that question?”

Regina smirks over her own shot, downs it instantly. “I’m just making conversation, Miss Swan.”

“And in my social circle, making conversation about sexual positions is usually an indication that the conversation is going somewhere less polite.”

“Am I being impolite?”

“Polite’s probably not the right word. Maybe decent is the right word.” Emma finally clears her throat, fixes Regina with a look that’s no longer masked thanks to the alcohol. “When a girl asks me if I’m a top, it’s because she wants a demonstration. She’d rather I show than tell.”

Regina says nothing, but that little smirk is still there. She reaches for Emma’s shotglass, pours yet another shot. At this point, Emma isn’t sure if she can take another one. 

“One more and then we ought to go to bed,” Regina says, and Emma can feel that heat between her legs again. “You certainly can’t drive home like that. Lucky for you, we have a guest bed.”

“Lucky me,” Emma says, and downs the last shot.

 

 

 

 


	7. in which there is the obligatory montage of family bonding

 

 

 

 

Emma dreams and it’s like the whole world is sliding into one ear and out the other. Drunk dreams are like that with her -- all heavy visuals and blindingly loud and ever so slightly sickening. One moment she’s dreaming about strangling Mickey Mouse and the next she’s performing oral sex on the evil queen from Snow White --

Something pokes her very hard in the side, and Emma opens her eyes to a talking greenbean.

 

 

 

 

Henry is in his Pan costume again, and he’s kneeling beside the bed, peering at her with sincere concern. There’s bright morning sunshine catching on the frizz of his slightly green mop and there aren’t piles of unfolded laundry and empty protein supplements littering the floor, so she’s definitely not in her own room.

“Emma,” he whispers, although it registers on the same decibel as a goddamned scream to her hungover ass. “Are you alive?”

Emma swats blindly at the air near Henry’s head. “Indoor voice,” she groans.

“Heck yes!” Henry fist pumps the air. “Mom bet me a dollar that you were dead, but we sure fooled her. You _look_ dead, so I didn’t know at first, but then I remembered when you taught me about playing dead and how--”

“Cannot... _no_...cannot,” and Emma buries her face directly in the pillow, because her head feels like the fucking smurfs are holding a bowling tournament directly behind her eyeballs. 

“Are you gonna hang out with me today?”

She blinks into the darkness of the pillow, a welcome refuge from the headache-inducing morning light. “Don’t you have school?”

Henry snorts, and she can only imagine the eyeroll that is accompanying that snort. _The ways he takes after his mother, lord._ “Emma, it’s Saturday. I don’t go to school on Saturday, remember?”

“In spite of your mom’s better attempts to kill me with booze, my memory is intact. Saturday, got it.”

Henry looks shocked. “You’re drunk?”

“Christ, I wish.”

Henry’s voice drops to a whisper. “Was my mom drunk?”

“Shockingly, no. She has the tolerance of a 290 pound truck driver. It’s insane.” 

“Sometimes she drinks three glasses of wine and plays Celine Dion really loud in her study,” Henry says matter-of-factly. “Sometimes she _sings along_.”

Emma smiles into the sheets. “I’m logging that away for future use.”

Henry, in typical ten year old style, is done talking about his mother and nanny doing grown-up things. “Well, if you’re not dead, come downstairs and eat pancakes with us, okay? Mom says when we’re finished, we can go do something cool.”

Emma lifts her head from her pillow, squints at her charge. “Wait, what? Pancakes?”

“I’m glad you’re still alive, Emma. Even if you do look like you were hit by a truck,” Henry says, and he grins, probably because he has just earned a dollar. Emma is glad her life is worth at least a dollar to this kid.

 

 

 

 

“The dead have risen,” Regina says, and Emma’s parking herself on a stool at the kitchen counter, gesturing with one tired hand for the coffee. Henry slides her mug over, still smiling about that damn dollar, which Regina hands over to him dramatically as soon as Emma’s sat down.

Emma hopes she looks slightly less of a hot mess than she feels, especially after spending a good ten minutes in the guest bathroom attempting to make herself appear human. Instead of putting a shirt back on, though, she stuck with the tank, and she catches Regina checking out the tattoo. Regina smirks when they make eye contact, and Emma feels her mouth getting dry. Which could also be the raging hangover, but, you know. Somehow the mayor of Storybrooke is a heavyweight in the booze category and Emma Swan is trying not to dissolve into the countertop while Regina looks fresh as a daisy, apparently this is her life now.

“How are you so perky? You put away more alcohol than a goddamned rugby team.”

“Black magic,” Regina jokes, and there is suddenly a stack of pancakes being placed in front of Emma, complete with strawberries and powdered sugar. Emma has to hold in a laugh.

“You know, when a girl makes me breakfast, it’s usually my cue to go.”

“Do they really fall for that?”

“For what?”

Regina’s slicing a strawberry with such precision that she might as well be performing surgery on it. “Your commitment issues. Is that still considered cute at your age?”

Emma almost chokes on a pancake, partly because she is stuffing her face to free her stomach from the clutches of hours old alcohol, partly because Regina is smiling with such utter _delight_. The real problem is that she can’t help but play right back into it. “Depends on the girl.”

“Then maybe you should be pursuing _women_.” Regina continues smiling, even _smirking_ , and puts the last of the strawberry onto Henry’s plate. 

“Am I getting relationship advice from someone who bailed on their date last night?”

Regina runs her tongue over her front teeth, and it does something to Emma. “Knowing what one wants is a sign of maturity.”

“You’re saying I don’t know what I want?”

“Or maybe I’m saying that you know exactly what you want, and that’s the problem.”

Henry, who up until now has been tucking into his pancakes with abandon, pauses long enough to stare between Emma and his mother. A half-eaten pancake piece falls from his gaping mouth. When Regina leaves the room to return things to the pantry, he turns to Emma with an accusatory look.

“ _You’re_ flirting with my _mom_.”

“Am not!”

“Are too. _Wait_ ,” and he concentrates very hard on his pancakes, a hand on his chin. “She’s flirting with you, too.”

Emma knows she’s blushing but she also knows she looks like a trainwreck, so. “Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that she’s--”

“What does that mean, that she bailed on her date?”

“She left early. Look, kid. Don’t take this like--”

“This all _means_ something, I just don’t know what,” Henry says, looking incredibly serious. And then, in typical ten year old fashion, he returns to his pancakes with a smile and a story of a kid in his gym class who ate a worm for a quarter, and that’s the last he says of the flirting. For now.

 

 

 

 

Turns out the “something cool” Henry had originally alluded to was going to the museum. Ten year old Emma would have been all about a skate park, or a water slide, or even a goddamned petting zoo, but Henry wants to go to the museum. She would say this is probably the reason kids are lining up to bully him, but his mother might smack her.

“You probably have a lot to do today,” Regina starts, and she’s pulling on her jacket and there’s already the expectation in her voice, that typical tone of lowered standards. Emma shrugs, leans against the wall of the foyer.

“The kid wants me to stick around. Besides, Mary Margaret needs a day to herself to entertain the boy toy and have boring intercourse on our couch. As a decent roommate, it’s the least I can do.” Emma fixes her with a look. “Unless you’d rather I head home.”

“No, no,” Regina’s slightly pinker, her eyebrows raised. “I know Henry would really like it if you stayed.”

“Henry, of course.”

“Of course.” Regina’s staring at her and Emma’s staring back and it’s not like they’re really talking about anything out of the ordinary, but it’s not about Henry. It is, and it isn’t, and--

“You guys ready?” Henry’s suddenly in the foyer, changed out of his Pan costume and back into his typical sweater and too-clean sneakers. She’s really gotta teach this kid about scuffing up his sneakers a little bit. “This is gonna be _awesome.”_

“Uh, do the other kids know you like museums so much? Aren’t museums kind of like collecting stamps or knowing too much about Star Trek?” 

Henry knows what she’s implying, and he rolls his eye in a daring imitation of his mother. “Emma, it’s 2014. Nerds are _in_.” 

__

 

 

 

 

Henry’s practically bouncing from one gallery to the next, whispering excitedly about how he can’t wait for the medieval weaponry section, Emma and Regina trailing close behind. Regina pauses occasionally, gives a painting or sculpture a thoughtful look while Emma thinks about what she wants for lunch, or what would happen if you played tag football in the middle of a gallery. Sometimes she drags her feet and Regina seems to hide a laugh.

“Do you like art, Miss Swan?”

“Depends on your definition of art.”

Regina gives her a look. “What do you think art is?”

“A perfect cheeseburger. A completed pass with ten seconds on the clock.” Emma gestures half-heartedly. “Naps, sometimes, but the really good kind.”

Emma approaches where Regina is standing now, Regina’s hands clasped in front of her black jacket, her gaze on the huge oil painting. Emma looks up at the indiscernible splatters and random shapes. As far as she can tell, it’s a hot damn mess.

“Tell me what you see,” Regina says, taking a step closer to Emma. Her weight shifts subtly, and Emma can almost feel where their coat sleeves must be brushing. 

“Boobs, kind of. Lopsided boobs and a rabbit, maybe?”

Regina raises an eyebrow. She points to a portrait of a reclining nude woman on the other side of the room. “That’s what you said about that one, and the other ones in the last gallery.”

“There are a lot of boobs in this museum. Are you sure Henry should be seeing all these naked women?”

“These are cultural artifacts.”

“So’s a Playboy magazine in 100 years. Just because the Greeks lived ages ago, doesn’t mean we should be gazing with wonder at all the penises they painted. Pretty sure I saw a goat dude boning a girl on one of those pots back there.”

Regina sighs a little, moving on to the next painting. “I think you have sex on the brain, Miss Swan.”

“I think all these artist dudes did, too. I haven’t seen this many nipples in one room since I was 24.”

“Please don’t regale this story, Miss Swan.”

“It all started when my best friend at the time was like, hey, there’s a topless bar, we _gotta_ go--”

 

 

 

 

Henry wants to look at the suits of armor for what seems like years. Emma has to admit that the weapons are more interesting than all the other old stuff, and they talk a lot of smack about how awesome it would be if they could use real swords in their afterschool practices, Regina occasionally chiming in with tight insistent smiles and warnings about safety.

“Knights are the coolest,” Henry keeps saying, staring up at a broadsword taller than he is. “You’re kind of like a knight, Emma.”

Emma snorts. “Because I’m the coolest?”

“Because you can fight off _anything_ and you keep us safe. And you’d probably have a really ballin’ suit of armor, with like, _pink flames_ on it.” 

“Pink flames?”

“Pink isn’t _bad_ , Emma. But you gotta let me be your squire, okay?” Henry’s looking over his shoulder at her with such _sincerity_ and this huge grin on his face, and it kills Emma a little bit, having someone in the world who thinks this much of her.

Later, Regina puts her hand on Emma’s forearm, pulls her aside in a display of spears. “He wouldn’t come here for a year,” she says. “He wouldn’t even get excited when I talked about the armor.”

“Can’t imagine that. He’s gonna get drool on that helmet over there if we’re not careful.”

“Thank you,” Regina says, and her hand closes over Emma’s forearm, squeezes tightly. “I know this wasn’t easy for you, taking a job like this--” and Emma deliberately reminds herself not to interject with a mention of the extremely good money, “--but you’ve made him so happy. You’re doing really well. _We’re_...we’re doing really well.”

And then she walks back to where Henry is saying something about the 13th century and Emma’s staring after her, her arm still warm.

 

 

 

 

“Are you sure this is...” and here, Regina runs a finger along the countertop, dramatically examining it. “ _Sanitary?_ ”

Henry winces and pulls on his mom’s hand, stuffing it under the countertop. “Moooom,” he whines, making a face. “Come _on_. We’ve been here before. It’s really, really good, I promise.”

Regina shoots Emma a look. “You’ve been here before?”

Emma just shrugs and grins, her usual response to Regina’s raised eyebrows. “It’s our go-to spot.”

“For what? Salmonella?”

“The burgers are really good,” Henry says, nodding at the men directly behind the counter who are flipping patties. “Emma says it’s old school.”

“I assume this old school hasn’t heard of health codes.”

“If you want to wait an hour in line at the overpriced food truck for a mediocre tofu burger, then by all means.” Emma thumbs over her shoulder. “Henry and I’ll just stay here, eating the best damn cheeseburgers of our life.” 

“Does a bacterial infection improve the taste, then?”

But Regina is extremely quiet upon actually _tasting_ the cheeseburger -- even if she did insist that they serve it on a bed of _fresh organic greens_. Her chewing goes from contemptuous to blissful, and she narrows her eyes at Emma. Emma grins.

“Did we tell you so?”

“Yes, Miss Swan,” and it looks like it’s getting harder and harder for Regina to glare at her these days. “You told me so.”

 

 

 

 

“Can we watch Star Wars?”

“Miss Swan probably has to go home, Henry.” 

Henry’s sprawled across the couch, his feet up on a pillow despite Regina’s earlier protests -- and Emma notices this a lot lately, the way Regina will only give a warning a few times before she eventually softens, the way she seems more relaxed and open and _okay_ \-- and Emma’s standing behind him, finishing the wine Regina poured for the adults as a “post-cheeseburger cleanse.” He gives her one of those looks of extreme puppy dog appeal, the ones that she is finding increasingly difficult to turn down.

“Sure,” she says. “I don’t have to go.”

“You don’t?” Henry’s face has lit up like a neon sign, but it’s his mother who actually asks the question. Emma shrugs.

“I mean, as long as it’s the original trilogy.”

Henry scoffs in a very grown-up sounding way. “Emma, do you really think I want to watch a movie with Jar-Jar Binks in it?”

Regina’s sipping her own wine, glancing between the two of them. “Who is Jar-Jar Binks?”

“Consider yourself lucky for not knowing the answer. If we’re going to watch Star Wars, I’d better get comfortable.” She hovers over the edge of the couch, knowing already how this is going to happen, awkward or not. Henry’s on one side and his mother’s on the other, and instead of the moment Emma had expected, Regina shifts and slides over toward her son, making room for Emma beside her.

Regina downs her wine when Emma and Henry begin reciting the ‘A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away’ speech. Emma attempts to focus intensely on the film as she becomes increasingly aware of the way her thigh is pressed against Regina’s, the way sometimes Regina’s elbow settles against her chest and the way their hands brush more than once.

“ _Really_ ,” Regina says at one point. “This is highly derivative. There’s nothing original about every hero’s narrative since the dawn of recorded history.” 

Emma throws her hands up in the air. “Laser swords, Regina. What else do you need?”

And maybe Emma’s hands come back down and her arms stretch out and maybe her arm is behind Regina on the couch. Maybe.

 

 

 

 

The ewoks are throwing a celebratory party in honor of the Empire being overthrown, and Henry’s got his legs stretched across the two of them, his feet in Emma’s lap. He’s snoring quietly. Regina’s stretched out a bit more, her left side leaning into Emma, her head occasionally resting in the crook of Emma’s elbow. 

“I hate those saccharine little teddy bears.” Regina takes a sip of her third glass of wine, this one having been poured into a plastic cup. She passes it to Emma. “Why they didn’t just set them on fire with their space fireball things is beyond me.”

“Yeah, you took way too much pleasure in their deaths. You straight up laughed at the scenes where they were crying over their bodies.” Emma almost finishes the wine, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. It’s probably the most expensive wine she’s ever had, guessing from Regina’s taste, and she’s drinking it like goddamned well whiskey. “Anyway, you can’t kill off the ewoks. The ewoks are the good guys.”

“Why do good guys always look like that?”

“Like semi-disturbed stuffed animals?”

“Cute and cuddly and, and--” Regina makes a clenching hand gesture. “ _Squishable_. Why do the heroes always have to be the adorable ones and the villains are hideous enough to haunt houses? It’s so...predictable. And what about Darth Vader’s redemption arc? Why drag the poor man out of his position of power if you’re just going to kill him off? It’s not even remotely satisfying.”

Emma pretends to dial a phone. “Hang on, I’m calling George Lucas right now.”

Regina gives her a look, and then she relaxes back into Emma’s arm. There’s a moment where Emma’s holding her breath, feeling the weight of Regina’s body against hers, a moment when they both know that they’re touching and Regina’s looking at her with such intent and then--

“Do you want to stay?”

“Here?” Emma’s hand goes unconsciously to the arm of the couch, her fingers curling into the cushion possessively, as if she’s looking for something to be tethered to indefinitely. “Tonight, you mean.”

Regina nods, her mouth a tight line. “Tonight,” she says.

“I mean, if you...if you think it’s okay.”

“Henry loved having you here today. I’m sure he’ll be referring to it as the best day of his life.” Regina smiles, her eyes on Emma’s mouth. “If there was an Emma Swan action figure, he’d have two.”

“So I could make out with myself?”

Regina gives her a playful shove with her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m out of clean clothes, for the record. I could always lounge around in my skivvies, but only if you were to ask.” 

“I can have my assistant run over to your place and bring your things tomorrow.”

“The mayoral interns are really getting a lot of relevant experience out of their work study, huh?”

“If they survive your building, they’re worthier than I thought.” Regina gently slides Henry’s feet onto the floor. “Your squire needs to go to bed, Miss Swan.”

“So he’s _my_ squire when there’s heavy lifting to be done?” But Emma winks, and pulls the kid up onto his feet, despite his groaning and sleepy protests. “Okay, Sir Enrique, the princess is in the upstairs castle tonight.”

Henry opens one eye, leaning onto Emma’s shoulder as she hauls him towards the staircase. “You’re staying over tonight?”

“Guilty as charged.”

The one eye narrows. “Are you staying over in my mom’s room?”

Emma whistles. “Wow, that cheeseburger sure has made you delirious. I’d say your brain is swelling. Let’s get you to bed before you can announce any other incriminating delusions.”

Henry sighs, leaning in to give her a very sleepy half-hug. “Can you stay over every night?”

“I don’t want to make a habit out of it, kid. If I don’t watch out, I’ll end up as your live-in nanny.”

 

 

 

 

And this is how Emma Swan unintentionally becomes a live-in nanny.

 

 

 

 


	8. in which we briefly visit the fake girlfriend trope

 

 

 

 

Being a live-in nanny _née_ bodyguard has its benefits. For example, she no longer has to do her own laundry. Emma will steadily build a pile in the corner of the guest bathroom until Thursday rolls around -- Henry’s chore day -- and then the kid comes and picks it up in a basket. Usually with a little extra attitude on his part.

“You have too many tanktops.”

“No such thing. I need them to look extra impressive when I’m doing my pull-ups.”

Emma convinced Regina to let her install a pull-up bar in the closet doorway. And by convinced, she installed it without asking and then waited for Regina to notice, which she did, raised an eyebrow, said “Oh?”, and then swiftly exited the room. Emma had been using said pull-up bar at the time, so that might have been part of Regina’s needing to leave as soon as possible, or maybe that’s just Emma’s wishful thinking.

Henry gets a look in his eye, the kind of look that Emma’s come to associate with him knowing a little too much for his age.

“You know who just called and said he’s stopping by?”

Emma freezes mid-grunt, causing her to land gracelessly flat-footed on the floor. “I thought you said it was a telemarketer.”

Henry smiles knowingly. “But I didn’t use the telemarketer voice, did I?”

Henry typically does a very poor impression of Batman when speaking to a telemarketer.

“Oh fu-- _fruity pebbles_.” Emma has gotten very good at correcting her language since moving in with Regina, something that is not a coincidence. “When is he supposed to be stopping by?”

“He asked when Mom was gonna be home.”

“And did you tell him?”

“He said he was ‘in the neighborhood’ and might ‘drop by’.” Henry makes quotation marks with his fingers. “He always talks like such a grown-up, it’s weird.”

“That’s because he _is_ a grown-up, kid.”

“Well, you’re a grown-up, and you don’t talk like you’re trying to make me feel little and stupid.” 

Emma digs unceremoniously through the laundry basket in Henry’s hands. “That, kid, is because I am what most parents would refer to as a disappointment.” She sniffs a few shirts. “These are still wearable, right?”

Henry frowns a little. “I don’t think you’re a disappointment, Emma. And no, they’re dirty. No takebacks in my laundry basket.”

“What makes my muscles look the biggest and most intimidating?”

Henry looks her over, and then sighs. “Your tanktops,” he says, with only a little bit of defeat in his voice. 

She pats at her own forehead. “Am I sweaty? I wanna look kinda sweaty, like I just pummeled a guy.”

“You look pretty gross.”

“Perfect.”

 

 

 

 

Sure enough, Pretty Boy shows his pretty face. Extremely nice car -- _a Lexus? Seriously? Ugh, fucking son of a_ \-- pulls up in the driveway, and this guy gets out and rings the doorbell. Emma is right there to answer. Of course he is a traditionally handsome nice guy who she will need to work hard to find reasons to hate.

Well, she supposes that his liking Regina so damn much is a good start.

And that unbelievably massive bouquet of roses isn’t doing him any favors, either.

“Uh, hi,” he says, looking slightly confused that a sweaty looking Emma has answered the door, probably even more confused that she’s trying her intimidating eyebrow thing on him. “Is Ms. Mills home?”

_Ms. Mills? Oh Jesus._

“She is not. Negotiations with the union of construction workers, she’ll be gone for a while.” Emma holds out a hand. “I can take that desperate looking bouquet off your hands, though.”

“Sorry?”

“That lovely bouquet, like I said,” she says as sweetly as she can manage -- Henry will later explain that she cannot do sweet if she was covered in sweets -- and Robin hands them over.

“Sure,” and he smiles a little more now, that kind of bright white winning smile that makes Emma want to punch a wall. “We should probably get them in some water.”

“Last I checked, I didn’t have a ten gallon drum, but I’ll do my best.” She makes sure to flex her forearms while gesturing. “Come on in, bud.”

“I’m Robin, by the way. Robin Loxley.” His handshake is firm and friendly, which is basically the worst. He laughs a little, a hearty and inviting laugh. _Ugggghhhhhh._ “And there’s no question who you are, of course.”

Emma raises her eyebrow. “There isn’t?”

“You must be Emma, Henry’s nanny. I heard all about you at dinner last week. At one point I said, am I on a date with Regina, or the Emma Swan Digest? I don’t know if she found that funny. She doesn’t laugh too much, does she?”

Emma is considering it incredibly fortunate that she is not directly facing Robin and is instead attempting to find a vase large enough to hold this buttload of garish roses. Her immediate instinct is to loudly cry _WHAT?!_ and spin in place, but she bites down on her lip until it hurts and pretends that she is very busy with this whole flower thing. _She was talking about me? On her date!? With this dude?!_

Emma attempts a very unnatural and awkward laugh. “Regina’s kind of like an orange. There’s a layer there, and you have to very gently peel it back, you know what I mean?”

Robin blinks for a moment, and Emma doesn’t really blame him, having just thrown down one of the worst metaphors she’s ever constructed in her life, but he smiles the way a truly nice gentleman guy would smile. And oh, she hates it. “You know,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter in that handsome kindly gross way. “You might be able to give me a little insight. Seeing as you know her best--”

“It’s difficult to know Regina best, honestly.”

“--and you spend so much time with her and Henry. Where is the little slugger, by the way?”

Emma is well-aware that Henry is currently in his bedroom, using his junior spy equipment to watch this interaction since he bugged the kitchen for fun the other day, but she shrugs. “He’s at his friend’s house. Rehearsing for the play, I think.”

“Right, he’s Peter Pan. Regina asked if I’d come with her, I think it’ll be pretty great.”

Emma pretends that crumpling rose petals in her left fist is all part of the flower-to-vase process. “She, uh...she asked you to go?”

Robin smiles again. “It won’t be much of a date. She already made it clear you’d be there, too, and her mother. But I thought it would be nice to meet everyone.”

“Sure,” she says, and she’s attempting the sweet voice again, knowing it’s coming out a little too much like an accusation. “You’ll have a great time.”

“I hope so.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Regina says you’re not really a nanny.”

“She is correct.” Emma attempts to subtly flex. “I am the family bodyguard, actually.”

Robin laughs. “So if I break Regina’s heart, you could beat me up, huh?”

Emma’s never been more sincere in her life. “Without a moment’s hesitation.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Robin’s still smiling like a nice guy but he’s definitely aware of how strange this is, and Emma’s trying not to look like she’d murder him and bury him in the backyard if Regina so much as implied that it was on her wishlist. Robin coughs, smiles again, and Emma’s begging him with her eyes not to break the silence, but of course he goes right ahead and --

“So she’s not coming back any time soon?”

Emma shakes her head fervently. “Definitely not.”

“It’s not worth me waiting around for her, then?”

More enthusiastic head shaking. “Nope.”

“You’ll tell her I stopped by?”

Emma puts on her biggest shit-eating grin. “Oh, for _sure_.”

When Robin goes in for a handshake, she decides now is the time to demonstrate just how frigging strong her grip is, as in _fuck with me, her, or the kid, and I will choke you out with my thighs_ strong. This leads to the most awkward handshake she has ever been a part of, as she slightly grits her teeth and he looks pained and she has to stop herself from making her eyes bulge.

“Okay, great!” Robin yanks his hand free, shaking the circulation back into it. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Swan.” He smiles again. “I’ll see you at the theatre, then.”

“Or maybe I’ll see you first.”

Robin once again has to work very hard to hide his confusion. “Um, sure. Of course, Miss Swan.”

“Got my eye on you, Loxley,” and she fixes him with the nastiest stare she’s got in her. When his look goes from confused to terrified, she breaks back into a smile, knocking him on the arm. “I’m just kidding, buddy. Don’t break her heart, though. I am professionally trained to kill.”

Robin laughs nervously. “You got me, Miss Swan.” 

“I know I do.” She smiles and waves at his stupid nice car and his stupid nice face. “Drive safe!”

 

 

 

 

Upstairs, Henry’s ear is glued to the baby monitor. He jumps out from under the bed as soon as Emma comes in.

“He got my mom _flowers_?”

“Yep, one bajillion roses. Red roses, too, the cliche to end all cliches.”

“Mom doesn’t like flowers.” 

“She doesn’t?” Emma tries not to be too obvious about taking mental notes.

“One time, this guy at work sent her a bouquet of roses and she said that flowers are unoriginal. I think she made him feel bad because he sent daisies to the house, too, and she said he was an uncreative soulless sheep.”

“So she wants creativity?”

Henry sees right through her, of course. “Don’t get her one of those edible arrangements, Emma.”

“Okay, _harsh_. Wasn’t even considering it, but thanks for thinking I’m that boring.”

“Is he really coming to my play?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Probably gonna try to hold her hand and everything.”

Henry sticks out his tongue. “Yick, gross. Please don’t let him hold her hand.”

“Just call me Nanny Cockblock, kid.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that the rooster is not getting anywhere near the henhouse.”

Henry raises his eyebrows, a miniature version of his mother’s famous expression. “Still don’t get it.”

“It’s not important. The important thing is that if he tries anything, he’s gonna sleep with the fishes.”

“Please don’t go to jail, Emma.”

“Jail? Been there, done that. Not a big deal. It’s prison you want to avoid.” She points at the notebook on his dresser, covered in stickers and big red letters that spell out ‘IMPORTANT THINGS BY EMMA’. “Add that to the notes.”

He gives her a thumbs-up. “Jail no big deal, prison bad. Got it.”

“Kid, you make me proud.”

 

 

 

 

Another perk of being a live-in nanny? Assuming the house role of terrible joke teller.

“Emma, I’m hungry.”

“Hi hungry, I’m Emma.”

Henry groans audibly.

 

 

 

 

Henry’s staying late for final rehearsals and Emma’s been dragged into grocery shopping with Regina. Not that she needs to be dragged anymore, not since she started realizing that she was looking forward to time spent alone with Regina, that sometimes those were the best parts of her day. Even if Regina insists on always shopping at the co-op, she’s starting to laugh when Emma makes fun of organic produce or tries to pronounce spices.

All this is put on a back burner, though, when Emma spots an incredible familiar backside reaching for the gluten-free pasta. 

“ _Shit, shit, shit._ ” Emma ducks down behind the quinoa display. Regina gives her a look.

“Did the whole grains give you a surprise, Miss Swan?”

“Ex,” Emma manages to croak out, hoping that Esme hasn’t seen her. “My ex is here.”

But of course Esme’s seen her, and she smiles that smile that could be genuinely happy and could be absolutely pissed, but Esme’s not the type to let on and Emma was never the type to need a straight answer. That was one of the reasons they got on for as long as they did, Emma thinks, if she’s being honest with herself. She likes a girl who keeps her guessing and Esme liked a blonde who didn’t ask too many questions. Which is probably why the man walking behind her is blond and staring at the ghee butter without much expression.

“Well,” Esme says, and flips her hair in that way that used to make Emma feel like her stomach was hosting a butterfly colony. “Long time, no see.”

Emma forces a cough, the only thing she can think to do right now. “Coulda done with that long time being a little bit longer. Maybe even indefinitely, possibly never again.”

Esme winks at that. “Was the break-up really that bad?”

“I think you know the answer to that, honey.” 

Esme’s still super hot, of course. Dancer’s body, perfect coffee and cream skin. Huge head of hair -- minus the one section that she’s artfully shaved off, of course -- and that same gold ear cuff. Emma cannot deny that the girl has always known how to accessorize. That dull-looking goatee’d dude pushing the cart, though, oh man. No thank you.

Esme’s eyes are narrowed and her smile is that classic combination of charming and dangerous. She’s looking between the two of them, giving Regina the one-over this time. “I see you upgraded, Swan.”

“See you didn’t.” Emma nods at the boy toy over Esme’s shoulder. 

Esme snorts. “Always the sweetheart.”

“Right, _well_ ,” Emma makes a show of pushing the grocery cart in the opposite direction, Regina reluctantly being pulled along. “We have to go now, so, bye. See you again never. Have a terrible life. Don’t get in touch. Etcetera, etcetera.”

Emma barely notices that in her haste to exit the grains section, Regina is pursing her lips ever so slightly and glaring daggers at Esme.

 

 

 

 

And somewhere between consciously-harvested fish and the cheese aisle, Regina leans in towards Emma.

“Miss Swan, that was very dramatic. Even by your standards.”

“Okay, do I need to drag out the whole sordid tale?”

Regina blinks. Emma sighs.

“Fine, _great_ , it’s storytime. That is my ex. Once upon a time, we almost moved in together. We dated for three years, she cheated on me with doofus over there for one of them. I figured it out, we broke up, she did not apologize. I am still probably a little mad about it.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “A _little_?”

Emma shrugs, knowing she’s turning bright red. “Okay, a lot, but only because no one had ever broken my heart like that and it...it _bothered_ me.”

Regina’s face softens. There’s the beginning of a smile playing at her lips, but it’s the kind of smile she gives Henry sometimes, that smile of reassurance and kindness and _care_. “You’re allowed to be more than bothered, Emma.”

It’s the first time Regina has ever referred to by her first name, and there, among the gouda and the aged cheddar, Emma feels her heart turn a couple cartwheels. 

“Thanks, Regina.”

“Of course,” Regina says, and now turns her attention to selecting camembert. “By the way, Miss Swan, was your ex implying what I think she was?”

“What? _Oh. _That you and I are, um?”__

__Regina’s smile is as cool and unreadable as ever. “Yes, that.”_ _

__“She definitely was, yeah.”_ _

__“Well, that’s...” That smile becomes something new altogether. “That’s interesting.”_ _

__“Hey,” Emma says, and she knows her tone is the way it usually gets around Regina, all reckless and punch-drunk and eager for _something_. “I’m a catch. You should be flattered.”_ _

__“I thought I was the upgrade.”_ _

__“Don’t let Cheater McCheaterpants get to your head.”_ _

__“I could say the same thing to you.”_ _

__“It’s not my head that she usually gets to.”_ _

__Regina snorts, glancing down at Emma’s pants. “I’m sure that part of you will find a method of distraction.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Emma says, and by now she must be the same shade as a firetruck. “It usually does.”_ _

__“Not in my guestroom, though.”_ _

__“Of course not. I much prefer the kitchen counter, or the linen closet.”_ _

__“Wherever you can find something clean to ruin, Miss Swan.”_ _

__“Filthy as charged.”_ _

__Regina’s laugh has noticeably changed. Emma decides she’ll log that one away for future reference._ _

__

____

 

 

 

 

And so it should come as no surprise that Esme ends up directly behind them in the checkout line. Emma’s biting her tongue, _hard_ , and barely able to concentrate on the conversation with the pierced and dreaded cashier. 

That’s when Regina slips her arm through Emma’s and leans into her side. 

“Hey,” she says, and Regina’s bitten down on her lower lip, there’s something in her eyes that just about _burns_ , and Emma thinks she might collapse in the middle of this bougie-ass grocery store, she might have a heart attack on the floor of this organic-ass free-range popsicle stand. 

“Hey,” Emma tries, and her voice is probably shaky and she probably looks like she’s about to faint, but there’s something about the way Regina’s looking at her now that makes her feel a little taller, a little more confident. 

Regina’s fingers interlace with her own. “You look really good today,” Regina says, and throws a look over her shoulder. 

If someone were to tell her that the world was about to end, that the entire universe was going to come crashing into fiery chaos within seconds, Emma wouldn’t even argue.

 

 

 

 

In the morning, there is a packed brown bag sitting on the counter. It is slightly larger than Henry’s lunchbox, and has a post-it note in perfect handwriting that says ‘Emma’ on it.

Emma’s standing in the kitchen at 8 am when she sees it, ready to go in her training gear. She’s gotten used to the routine of Regina leaving early in the morning, assigning Emma the occasionally Herculean task of waking up the fourth grader and driving him to school. 

“Holy shit. She made me lunch.”

Henry’s in his uniform, tie still undone. He shrugs nonchalantly, obviously not as shocked as Emma that Regina has prepared his nanny’s lunch today. “Oh, yeah. She asked me last night what kind of foods you like to eat.”

“And what did you say?” Emma’s already digging through the bag.

In true Regina fashion, the lunch contains exactly: 

1 perfectly grilled boneless chicken breast, seasoned with lemon and garlic  
1 fresh garden salad on a bed of baby leaf spinach and kale  
1 small container of homemade balsamic dressing

“I said you like cookies with chocolate in them.”

And:

3 homemade chocolate chip cookies, still warm.

 

 

 

 


	9. in which a certain character may be acting as a matchmaker

 

 

 

 

Regina’s home when Emma gets home, a rare occurrence. Emma drops the keys to the Bug on the kitchen counter and notices the shining logo of the Benz already in the basket, a pair of black heels on the floor. The last of Robin’s roses, which Emma had been all too pleased to see Regina tear into petals and use as garnishes, is sitting forlornly in an oversized vase.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

She knows she must look like hell -- three sessions in a row with some of her most advanced students, giving it as good as they got it -- and she needs to shower before Henry gets home. The only wrench in her plan is that someone appears to have beaten her home.

The house seems to be silent, until Emma enters the foyer.

There’s the faint sound of music coming from the second floor, and Emma tries to be as quiet as possible as she goes up the stairs, down to her socks to mute the sound. The closer she gets to Regina’s room, the more defined the sound becomes, until the voice of a woman singing about a Sunday love is just about hypnotic to Emma’s ears.

The door to Regina’s room is cracked open, and Emma bites down on her lip when she pauses in front of it, Regina suddenly appearing in the sliver, her back to Emma. She’s in a deep red bra and her black skirt and even when Regina was still in her class, Emma’s never seen her so very undressed. Regina pulls on one sleeve of a white blouse and then steps out of sight. Emma smirks a little, hearing that Regina is now humming along.

“Uh, hey,” she says, and knocks on the door, lowering her eyes.

There’s a noise of surprise from the other side, a string of curses in Spanish, and then Regina’s opening the door fully dressed, the white blouse tucked into the skirt, her lipstick on but her hair still undone. _Fuck, she looks good._ Her eyebrows are furrowed but she still laughs when she sees Emma, her shoulders falling a little as if in relief.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“I am not Jesus, but I’ll pass the word onto him.” Emma grins, nods along to the music. “This is good, I like it. Whoever she is has a hell of a voice.”

“You’ve never heard Etta James?”

“Probably not. More of a Lynyrd Skynyrd fan myself.”

“That sounds like a venereal disease that only afflicts Dr. Seuss characters.”

“‘Sweet Home Alabama?’ ‘Freebird?’ Seriously, these are classics.”

Regina raises an eyebrow, but she’s still smiling. “Have you ever been to Alabama, Miss Swan?”

“Do I need to in order to like the song? Have you ever wanted a Sunday kind of love?” Emma asks, referencing the lyrics that Etta James is currently singing. Regina’s smile shifts entirely, as if it’s changing shape to better mask a secret.

“Maybe,” she says, and the light in her eyes is low and warm.

Emma takes a deep breath, trying to shake off all the new feelings in her limbs. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon. I assume the city is not being attacked by mutant lizards, so they gave you the day off?”

“I thought Henry might feel better if I’m home when he gets here, just in case there’s any last minute jitters.”

“About the play?” Emma snorts. “The kid’s fine. In the car this morning, he told me that he’s going to be glad when the play is over because, and I quote, ‘the life of an actor is tedious.’”

Regina smirks. “He’s going to hate me for taping the whole thing tonight, isn’t he?”

“He’s probably going to hate you more for bringing your boyfriend.”

Emma nearly bites off her own tongue as soon as she’s said it. Regina’s expression shifts, only for a second, just enough for Emma to see that she’s registered it. 

“Robin,” she says, “is not my boyfriend. And Henry’s grown up with me being very single. I’m not surprised he isn’t enthusiastic about me dating. It’s part of the reason why I’ve put it off for so long.”

“I think Henry sees it as the guy’s a threat to the little family unit. Like why would you want to mix things up when you’ve got this great thing going, you know?”

“This great thing being what exactly, Miss Swan?”

Emma’s glad she’s sweaty enough from work that Regina might not be able to tell that she’s getting a little warmer. Or maybe Regina can always tell, because she’s like that, the way she picks her apart like another puzzle, piece by piece, willing or not.

So she decides to ignore that question with another question.

“Does Robin know he’s not your boyfriend?”

“I think I’ve been very clear that we’re just friends.”

“Yeah, see, here’s the thing. Friends don’t buy their friends enough roses to sink the Titanic.” 

Regina laughs now, but it doesn’t comfort Emma, not when she still doesn’t know the heart of the conversation. 

“That _was_ absolutely ridiculous, wasn’t it?”

“I believe some would refer to it as ‘thirst’.” Emma runs her hand through her hair, still damp from the workout. “I have to shower, I’m pretty gross.” She clears her throat as if her body itself wants to buy time. “Thanks, by the way.”

Regina shrugs dramatically. “No need to thank me, Miss Swan. There was a shower installed when I bought the house.”

Emma rolls her eyes but she’s grinning, loving that even Regina’s fallen into a few of her cornier jokes. “You made my lunch this morning.”

“Oh,” Regina says, and Emma tries to read all the new weight to Regina’s mouth, the way her smile resets itself and her teeth play at her bottom lip for a moment and fuck, why can’t she ever stop looking at her mouth? 

“It was really, uh, good. Especially the cookies.”

There’s a pinker tint to Regina’s cheeks. “I’m glad you liked them.”

“I’m...really bad at accepting nice things from people. I’m bad at saying thank you, and I’m bad at thinking that someone would want to do a nice thing for me. So, if I’m fucking this up somehow, I just...you should know that I appreciated it. It was really nice.”

“It’s fine,” Regina says, and takes a step closer. It’s the closing of the gap between them that always makes Emma feel like they’re standing on a the edge of a wire rather than here, in this house, a place that she’s starting to think of as hers, too. 

“I have to, uh...” Emma’s mind races, temporarily entertaining completely inappropriate thoughts. “I have to shower.”

“Of course,” Regina says, and there is the tiniest squeakiest part of Emma that wants to narrow her eyes and tug at Regina’s wrist and say something like ‘might as well share water, huh?’ but there’s no way she’s that stupid, right?

Right.

So she goes into her own room, undresses in front of her own shower, and hopes that a dose of cold water will calm her down. For now.

 

 

 

 

Henry comes home and whatever jitters Emma had sworn he wouldn’t have are suddenly the news of the day. Henry barely hoists himself onto the counter stool before he looks like he’s having a panic attack. Regina’s the one who immediately notices, but she busies herself with making him a gigantic chocolate milk while Emma gives him a nudge with her elbow.

“How was school, Henrietta?”

“The worst,” Henry says, and buries his face in his hands. “Everything is the worst. I think the world is ending, actually, and I really need to not be here right now.”

Regina glances over her shoulder at Emma, raises her eyebrow. Emma shrugs, puts an arm around Henry.

“What do I always tell you, kid?”

“‘Ovaries before brovaries’?”

“The other thing.”

“‘Always question The Man’?

“You can do anything you set your mind to,” she says for him, sighing loudly. “That’s what I always tell you.”

“Oh, right.” Henry’s sucking on his bottom lip, looking pale. “It’s just right now, I’m not sure I want to set my mind to this.”

It’s Regina who kneels down now, taking both of Henry’s hands in hers. “Henry, do you think anyone else can be Peter Pan tonight?”

“No way. I’m the only one who knows the lines.”

“You’re the best at it, aren’t you?”

There’s a little more color in his cheeks when he shrugs, works his bottom lip with his teeth. “I...I guess so.”

Regina’s smile could outdo the sun. “You _know_ so. And I know so, and Emma knows so. Your family knows so.”

It’s not until an hour later, when they’re all in the Benz on their way to the play -- Henry making the other occupant of the backseat, Cora, recite his lines with him, Regina driving with her eyes on the row, one of those smiles always playing on her lips, her lips, those lips, _fuck_ , she’s gotta stop staring at those lips, Emma’s shotgun and she’s got her elbow on the middle divider, like it wants to be touched, and she realizes, she _remembers_ \--

It’s not until then that Emma realizes that Regina had called them a family. Her, Henry, and Emma. _A family._

Regina’s elbow taps Emma’s over the divider. Emma looks over, catches Regina looking, smiling quickly before she turns away.

“Hey,” she says, and Regina smirks.

“Hello,” Regina says, and Emma notices that she accelerates a little bit too hard on the turn. In the rearview mirror, Cora makes eye contact with Emma.

 

 

 

 

She almost forgets that J.Crew McLLBean is going to be there, too, until they walk up to the front of the school and there he is, nautical sweater and forest green wool jacket a-blazin’. Emma fights the extremely strong urge to roll her eyes as he takes Regina’s arm, leading her to walk ahead of them.

“You know,” Cora says, leaning in to Emma and lowering her voice to a tone of conspiracy, which is definitely one of the more unexpected things she’s done around her grandson’s nanny. “He’s not her type.”

“What’s her type?”

Cora looks at Emma with a smile of pure bemusement.

“Oh, honey,” she says, and sighs as if she knows something all too perfect.

 

 

 

 

The arrangement in the auditorium is not much better. Emma ends up on the very end of the aisle, Cora in between her and Regina. She’s leaning forward enough to see Robin tucking his face close to Regina, whispering something that makes her laugh. Emma stops herself from grunting like a feral animal. Cora places a hand across Emma’s arm.

“Would you like to switch with me, dear?”

“Uh, what?”

“Yes, you should. You’ll never see from over there.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I can see with--”

Cora’s nails dig uncomfortably into Emma’s arm, and her smile becomes slightly more threatening. “ _Sweetheart_ , you’re going to switch seats with me.”

“Right, gotcha.” Fearing death, Emma immediately gets to her feet, letting Cora and her pearls and her silk outfit and her Chanel bag out into the aisle. Regina looks over at them, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“I couldn’t see,” Cora says, smiling at her daughter in a way that can only be described as forceful. “Besides, I much prefer the aisle seat. Something about this space is very... _stifling_ , isn’t it?” She gives Emma a wink before taking her seat.

_Well, this is unexpected._

 

 

 

 

Somewhere in between the Darling children flying to Neverland and Hook meeting his reptilian nemesis, Emma feels Regina shifting beside her, and a hand resting against her forearm. Emma glances over, and Regina must feel her staring because she looks down at her hand, and then at Emma. Emma’s pulse pounds as Regina holds her gaze, her lips parting ever so slightly.

Regina’s fingers spread, as if testing the air. And then they come to rest at Emma’s wrist, curling over her hand for only a moment, before returning to Regina’s lap.

Emma stares at her long after Regina’s gone back to watching the play. If the auditorium were to catch on fire, Emma’s not sure she’d notice.

 

 

 

 

The kid’s brilliant. Not that Emma had expected otherwise, but she’s on her feet clapping and whistling the second he takes his bow. And when he spots his family in the audience, his grin just about doubles.

Henry raises one fist to the ceiling, and yells “Bangarang!”

And Emma screams “Bangarang!” right back at him.

 

 

 

 

Henry decides that his post-performance celebration will be a hot fudge sundae at a place called Lickety Split -- Cora remarks that this sounds perfectly _obscene_ and then stares pointedly at Emma. It’s not until they get to the car that Henry tugs on Emma’s arm.

“Can it just be us? You, me, Mom, and Grandma.” He shoots a look over his shoulder at where Robin and Regina are talking quietly. “I don’t want anybody else there.”

“Anybody else being your mother’s new purse rack?”

It’s true; Robin did offer to carry Regina’s bag for her, and she did take him up on that offer, which Emma is reading as Regina’s fondness for people going prostrate before her. 

“Can you ask her, Emma?”

“You want me to ask your mother to kick Robin to the curb?”

Henry nods, screwing up his mouth into one of those little frowns that she just cannot resist anymore. 

“Kid, you _do_ understand how this is gonna look, right?”

“She’ll listen to you. She always listens to you.”

“Uh, since when? I’m pretty sure Destiny’s Child wrote ‘Independent Women’ in honor of Regina.”

Henry’s frown increases. “It’s ‘Independent Women Part I’, Emma.”

“Oh, _wow_ , excuse me for forgetting that I’m nannying the Beyonce Knowles superfan.” 

“She’ll listen to you, Emma. I know it.”

And as soon as he couples that little lip wobble with his puppy dog eyes, Emma knows there’s just no way she’s gonna say no to this kid. She sighs, casts a long glare in the direction of Robin and Regina. Cora, who up until now has been quietly powdering her nose in the backseat, clasps her mirror shut and smiles at Henry.

“Enrique, why don’t you tell your mother that you’re not feeling well, and that you’d like to go home? Right now, darling, off you go.”

Henry’s frown turns skeptical, but he nods at his grandmother and heads off in his mother’s direction.

“Now,” Cora says, giving Emma a look that could mean just about anything but still makes Emma feel like someone is dissecting her. “We’ll lose the dead weight under false pretenses and head off to this unfortunately named ice cream parlor. Everyone wins.”

“Wow. That was...pretty impressive.”

“You don’t need to flatter me, darling,” Cora says, and the way she smiles is just about deadly.

 

 

 

 

Henry piles back in like there’s a match under him, but Regina just about slams the door. Emma’s watching Robin wave from the curb, stupid handsome smile on his stupid handsome face. She waves back half-heartedly. Regina pulls out of their parking spot before she turns to her mother and reveals a look that could probably set fire to a national forest.

“ _You_ put him up to this?”

Cora takes out that mirror again, checking her lipstick. “ _Mija_ , it’s what--”

“No,” Regina says, and then starts in a cascade of angry Spanish that Emma catches absolutely zero of, choosing instead to stare at Regina’s increasingly redder cheeks.

Cora responds in Spanish as well, but her tone is cool and calm and that smile remains on her freshly repainted lips, almost troublesome in its immovability. 

And once Henry joins in, also in Spanish, Emma decides to play ‘how many people are staring at us right now?’ and gets up to 12 before Regina notices, too.

“ _Carajo_ ,” Regina mutters under her breath, and then gives the family in the car next to them a big smile. Emma gives them all a thumbs up.

“Sometimes I forget you’re Latina,” Emma says as they’re pulling away.

“Really? I don’t.” Regina’s looking straight ahead, and the rest of the car ride is almost silent.

 

 

 

 

Things do pick up a little, once Emma decides to use Henry’s bananas as walrus tusks and Cora asks if the staff could fetch her a ‘plate of strawberries and clotted cream’, which the acne-ridden teenage server interprets as a giant strawberry sundae. When it arrives, Cora makes a noise that sounds a little like a squeak and Henry starts laughing, which is enough to get Regina laughing, too. 

And for at least a half hour, Emma feels like they’re just another family out for ice cream, fucking up and still loving each other. As families should be, she thinks.

 

 

 

 


	10. in which she may or may not be asking her out on what may or may not be a date

 

 

 

 

When Emma was seven, her foster father promised her that they’d go on a vacation. He’d promised all the kids that, a whole week of camping in the mountains, with a tent, and food cooked over a fire, and enough space for them to run around for ages and never hit a wall. Not like the tiny fenced in yard with the broken down car and the overflowing garbage cans. Not like the beer bottles lined up on the porch. Emma clung to the promise of this trip like it was the only thing that mattered that year, and maybe in some ways, it was.

One night, her foster mother had been screaming in the kitchen, and the oldest of the kids, a boy named Patch who seemed to have a permanent black eye, pulled the others out of their beds.

“Come on,” he said, and tried to get them all to smile. “We’re going camping.”

There was the sound of broken glass and their foster dad yelling, a chair sliding across the floor and hitting the wall. This was the same man who would give Emma her first broken wrist. She had already learned to fear him and stay quiet around their social worker. 

Patch had led the three of them out into the backyard, and he told the littlest ones to get under the picnic table and stay quiet. “You’re in the tent now,” he said, and put a blanket over them. “You gotta stay in the tent until I get back.”

Patch had gone inside, and Emma, thinking she was big enough, followed. She stood in the doorway when Patch was hit square in the jaw by a bigger man’s fist. She told herself not to scream or cry. And when the big man reached for her, she took off running. She promised herself that this wasn’t the same man who was going to take her camping. Her family was coming to take her camping. He might toss her hard against the wall, but she was going camping soon. She had that to think about.

 

 

 

 

Emma wakes up because someone has their hand on her cheek. She bolts upright, realizes she’s breathing hard like she’s been running, fighting. Before she knows it, her hand is going to the wrist near her face and she pulls it under, hearing the groan of the person who she’s just pinned to the bed.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” she says, and even in the dark, she knows the smell of that skin, the warmth of that touch. She immediately releases her grip. Regina’s looking up at her, alarm in her eyes but not the kind of alarm she’d expected. Not fear so much as concern.

“Emma,” Regina sits back up, seems to be testing the air with her name. “I’m sorry, I just--”

“No, fuck, I’m sorry. My instinct is to just...you know. You took a goddamned class in it.”

“You were yelling in your sleep. I thought something was wrong, and then I came in and you looked like you were seizing, so I thought waking you up might help.”

Emma knows she must be turning red, and is glad for the darkness. “Shit. Did...did I wake Henry up?”

“No,” Regina says, her voice a little softer. “He’s fine. I was just checking on you.”

“Sorry I got you all worked up, then.”

“Don’t apologize.” Regina’s sitting up so stiffly, as if she’s trying to keep something from falling out of her chest. “Do you have nightmares often?”

Emma shrugs, tries to gather her senses. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s relative in comparison to anyone else. We’ve all got our baggage, right?”

“I suppose.” Regina moves a little closer, sliding across the bed in Emma’s direction. She presses the back of her hand to Emma’s forehead, and Emma stops breathing, just for a second. “Do you have a fever?”

“I’m fine, really. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” In the faint light from the window, Emma can see Regina pursing her lips, pushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Being furious at my mother tends to make me into an insomniac.”

“For the record, it _was_ Henry’s idea. Not that I’m snitching on him.”

Regina laughs a little, a quiet and easy sound. “Oh, I never doubted that. Henry’s not exactly subtle with his emotions. Probably something he’s learned from his nanny.”

Emma pretends to be offended. “But subtlety is my middle name!”

“Right, Miss Swan.” She can only imagine the look Regina is giving her right now, but something tells her there’s more than sarcasm here. “My mother has a tendency to seek out opportunities to control my life, and she is not above using an eleven year old for her purposes. I’m sure Henry wanted nothing better than to banish Robin to space, but in that moment, it was about my mother choosing what she thought was best for me. On top of that, having constituents see me in a rage, a _bilingual_ rage more importantly--”

“Yeah, I’m...really sorry about that. I’m an idiot, in case you haven’t caught on.”

Regina laughs again, but there’s an edge to the laugh, something Emma knows she deserves. “You’re learning,” she says, and then sighs again. “Christ, what a day.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t know if anyone actually heard what you guys were saying.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve already wasted too much of my energy getting the media to stop referring to me as ‘fiery’. All I need is some blogger talking about me going off in a parking lot for the city to decide they don’t want ‘some Mexican woman’ in charge of their fiscal decisions. My father was a state senator when he was alive, a Puerto Rican immigrant with just as much money as these New England bastards, making them eat it. My mother wanted me to go into politics, my father wanted me to stay away, find a nice guy, settle down and be content. He used to tell me that I wasn’t going to find happiness in a government job. I’m sure he’s enjoying a cigar in heaven right now, looking down at me and saying _¿No qué no?_ ”

“For the record, you’re a really fucking good mayor.”

“I could solve world peace and some white man would still find a way to refer to me as a ‘hot tamale’. It’s never enough.”

“You know,” Emma says, catches herself breathing faster. “I _am_ a trained bodyguard. If you need me to switch my role to hitman, I’d be more than happy. Anybody uses a derogatory term in your presence, I’ll silently take them out. No extra charge.”

Regina smirks. “If I need somebody killed, you’re the first one I call.”

“Out of curiosity, did you want Robin to be there?”

There’s a pause, and a noise that might be a sigh from Regina. “It wouldn’t have been terrible. I’m _trying_ with him, I really am.”

“Sometimes the fact that you have to try means you shouldn’t be trying at all.”

The room feels too quiet when they’re not whispering, and this time the pause seems to last ages. Emma doesn’t like the silence, because all she wants to do is fill those gaps, and there’s too many things she shouldn’t say that are always on the tip of her tongue. 

“Emma, I--”

“Do you want to get a drink tomorrow?”

Regina blinks. “A drink?”

“Like, at a bar. A drink at a bar.”

“A bar. Going to a bar.” This seems bafflingly difficult for Regina to process. “With you?”

“With me, at a bar. Getting a drink.”

“So we’d go to a bar together.”

“That’s the basic idea, yes.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Regina says, as if this is all dawning on her suddenly. “You want to hang out. I’m sorry, I have...I mean, I do have friends, I just don’t find myself getting out very much since the job, and there’s always the media around and--”

“I definitely know a place that no one will ever find you.”

“You make it sound like you’re going to take me to a dark alley and murder me.”

“Damn it, foiled again.” Emma can feel that buzz in her limbs, feel her skin getting warmer. This is typically a recipe for disaster -- and in the past, very bad sexual decisions -- but something about Regina makes her want to just let go, every single time. “I think you need a break from all this bullshit, and after tonight, you deserve a drink.”

“What about Henry?”

“Your mother’s got at least six years worth of television on the Tivo, I think she can manage.”

“Well, then.” Regina says, and there’s a new brightness to her voice. “I’ll go add it to my calendar.”

“And I’ll add it to my non-existent calendar, but I’ll probably remember because we live in the same house. Easy enough.”

Not that it’s a date. It’s definitely not a date. Really, Emma knows what she’s doing. There is just no way in hell that this is a date.

 

 

 

 

“You’re going on a _date_?!”

Ruby looks like someone has just told her that the world is exploding, or that the smoothie machine is broken. Emma makes her furious “pipe down, sassy best friend” hand signals, which Ruby promptly ignores. Emma sighs in frustration.

“It’s not a date, not even by a long shot.”

“How is this not a date?” Ruby puts on a very deep, strange voice. “‘Oh hi Regina, do you want to go to a bar with me and have me buy you drinks and flirt while we grow increasingly less capacitated? No big deal, though, we’re just friends! This is a thing that friends do, they buy each other drinks and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes! I want to do you sideways but it’s a friend thing, let’s be friends, friendship all the way!’”

“Is that...why are you making me sound like that?”

“That’s my _stupid_ voice, it’s for people who are _stupid_.” Ruby points her straw in Emma’s face. “Which you are, you are just so incredibly stupid for thinking that you two are gonna hang out like a couple of heterosexual gal pals.”

“I go out for drinks with you all the time, and it’s not a date. This is the same thing.”

“Really?” Ruby raises one incredibly fed up eyebrow. “Do you think about fucking me constantly?”

“Ew, _no_. Gross.”

“See, not the same thing.” Ruby takes a sip of her smoothie with the distinct air of ‘I told you so’. “I can’t wait to hear about how you two banged tonight, because that’s so obviously what’s on the menu right now.”

“Dude, we are not...banging, or whatever. Also, what, are you a fourteen year old boy? Why are you calling it ‘banging’?”

“There is no version of you and Regina going out to a bar and getting drunk together -- in other words, a _date_ , which is what it is, ‘lesbihonest’ Emma -- and not ending up in bed. There is absolutely no version of reality in which this does not finish with someone getting furiously fingered in the kitchen.”

“First of all, the kitchen is obviously a no-go zone, Regina keeps that place like a hospital surgery -- ”

“Really? Your objection to all this is that you probably won’t have sex in the kitchen? _That’s_ your lead-in?”

Emma decides to ignore that one. “Secondly, this is not a date because we both live in the same house. We sleep in separate rooms. No one dates the person who sleeps in their guestroom and takes care of their kid. I mean, when in the world has anyone ever slept with the nanny?”

Ruby drops her head into her hands. “Please tell me you’re kidding. There was literally an entire sitcom about this premise. Not to mention the fact that sleeping with the nanny is, like, a huuuuuge thing. Do you even watch porn?”

“Not when I share a wall with my employer, no.”

“That’s fair, I’ll give you that one. The point is, Emma, you’re going on a date tonight. You are going on a date with Regina Mills, the goddamned mayor.”

“Okay, see, it’s definitely not a date when you ask the person to get drinks right after they’ve come into your room and woken you up from a nightmare. That is the unsexiest thing in the world.”

“Wait, she came into your room? At _night_?” Ruby perks up considerably.

“Well, yeah, apparently I was freaking out, but--”

“She was in your _bed_ and she had to touch you while she was in the _bed_? This is sexy, Emma!”

“It was in a _mothering_ way, Ruby!”

Ruby snorts. “Psh, like you don’t have mommy issues out the wazoo. That is your _thing_ , Swan. When was the last time you met a straight woman over 35 who you didn’t want to bang into the sunset?”

Emma decides the best thing to do at this point is give up. She drinks the last of her smoothie in defeat.

“It’s not a date,” she grunts into her cup, and Ruby starts laughing hysterically.

 

 

 

 

(And across town in the hip little cafe a block from city hall, Regina Mills, mayor of Brooke City and political hot number, is using a salad to avoid answering questions.

Or at least this is how Regina will recall the situation to Emma many months later.

Kathryn is one of Regina’s oldest friends, although she’s more of a business associate and that’s how Regina works -- she’s used to her career coming first and her social life coming second, and thus has lived with building her social network out of people she’d spend time with at work anyway. Kathryn’s a lawyer, but she’s also the rich blonde daughter of an old New England family whose mansion at Midas Hall is already in Kathryn’s name. As Emma would put it, the girl is loaded.

She’s also very good at keeping the usually uptight Regina in a slightly less uptight position.

“Okay, don’t bite my head off before I finish, but there’s a singles mixer tonight and you should go,” Kathryn says, taking a careful sip of her mineral water. “But like I said, don’t kill the messenger. Just trying to get you laid, excuse me for caring.”

“Actually,” Regina says, and decides this is a good time to show an increased interest in her salad. “I have plans tonight, so I won’t be available.”

“You have _plans_?” Kathryn immediately brightens up. “Who’s the hot date?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Oh, are you finally admitting that the Robin guy is going nowhere? Please stop stringing him along, honey. It’s painful to bear witness to that kind of pointless suffering.”

“It’s nothing, it’s just drinks.”

Kathryn raises an eyebrow. Her lunch is a mineral water and a half of cantaloupe, which Regina is trying not to judge. “Why are you being weird about this?”

“I’m not being weird. It’s casual.”

“Describing something as ‘casual’ out loud automatically makes it not casual.”

“Emma thought that after this week, we might deserve a few drinks, so we’re going to--”

“Oh my _god_.” Kathryn drops her fork. “You’re sleeping with the nanny.”

Regina brandishes her own utensil in an unconsciously threatening way. “No,” she hisses. “I am _not_. That is absolutely ridiculous.”

“I mean, I don’t blame you. She’s that ripped trainer, isn’t she? The hot one?”

“She’s...yes, she is, but that’s not the point. The point is that we are friends having drinks. It’s preposterous you’re suggesting otherwise.”

“Regina Mills, having an affair with her nanny. Her _female_ nanny. The Internet will probably implode on itself, creating another universe.”

“Not helping, Kathryn.”

“Lucky for you it’s just drinks among friends, hm?” Kathryn winks gracelessly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to say anything.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“At least admit you’re attracted to her.”

“Kathryn!”

“What? I’m admitting it. Everyone’s allowed to take a dip in the other pool, right? Although my understanding was that you like to keep one foot in both, or--”

“ _Kathryn_.” Regina’s nostrils are flaring in typical Regina style. She makes a stabbing gesture with her fork. “Why don’t you finish your miniscule slice of melon before costing me my career in politics? Or is that too much for your digestion?”

Kathryn wrinkles her nose before taking a bite of the fruit. “You’re lucky I like you best when you’re a bitch.”

And Regina chews her lettuce mercilessly.)

 

 

 

 


	11. in which the not-date is most certainly a date

 

 

 

 

Emma’s triumphant return to her apartment goes as such:

The hero arrives at the apartment before nightfall in spite of sputtering Bug, and dashes up to her abode, taking the stairs two at a time. Upon opening the front door, she is confronted by the overwhelming shock of...a clean apartment. Mary Margaret and David are sitting at a table that is not overcrowded by unpaid bills, unfolded laundry, and Emma’s discarded sports bra. In fact, the apartment is barely recognizable. 

Mary Margaret almost launches her forkful of pie into the air. “ _Emma?_ ”

“The prodigal roommate returns, I know. I realized I left some things in my closet, so I’ll just pop in and pop out, no big deal. Place looks great, by the way. Very...clean.”

“Emma, we should probably talk before you just, uh, look in there.”

But Emma forcefully opens the door to her bedroom, expecting the usual disaster zone, only to be confronted with--

“Duckies?” Every square inch of the room is covered in tiny saccharinely hued baby ducks. They have huge eyes and grossly adorable smiles and they even manage to take the form of fluffy horrifying pillows in a crib that is decidedly not Emma’s bed. “You turned my room into a _nursery_?”

“Nursery combination craft room,” Mary Margaret corrects. She bites her lip in the picture of stubborn sheepishness. “I mean, you weren’t exactly using it anymore, and I’ve been super into quilting lately.”

“Her patch-working is really on another level,” David chimes in, not helping as usual. 

“Are you even pregnant?”

Mary Margaret shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“So where the hell is my stuff?”

“In the closet, organized alphabetically into boxes. Did you know you had black mold growing under the bed? That’s very unhealthy, Emma.”

Emma is trying very hard not to claw at her own face, or grab Mary Margaret by her neatly ironed Peter Pan collar and shake the kindergarten teacher right out of her. 

“Which box is my formalwear leather jacket in?”

Because yes, she does have more than one leather jacket, and yes, they are for different types of occasions and niceness, whatever.

Mary Margaret thinks for a minute. “That will be in the box labeled ‘L’.”

“For leather?”

“For lesbian clothes.”

 

 

 

 

Emma gets home before Regina, just around eight, which gives her enough time to change her outfit at least nine times. She stares down her reflection in the bathroom mirror, readjusting her third leather jacket and white tee combo. She tries a few squinty looks of seduction and different tones of voice, none of them particularly convincing.

“You can do this,” she says, furrowing her brow in an attempt at motivational speaking. “This is old news, man. You could go on a date blindfolded with one hand tied behind your back. Calm down. This is not a date. This is just drinks.”

She wants to tell herself that this is the same as it ever was, but she would be wrong. 

Thing is, the guest room looks nothing like Emma’s old bedroom, and it’s not just the new location. There’s a pile of books next to her bed now -- she’s halfway through ‘Genocide, Colonization, and Resistance’, which Regina let her borrow when Emma asked why she kept rolling her eyes and swearing in Spanish whenever Thanksgiving was mentioned -- and her things are always organized, either by a chore-wielding Henry or Emma herself, letting the kid have a break for once. Sometimes Henry will jokingly tell Emma that she’s “growing up, too” and even if she swats him on the shoulder, she knows there’s a little bit of truth in that.

If being single and unhappy for as long as she was had regressed her, something about this house and its family had made her all over again.

 

 

 

 

Henry pokes his head in at eight thirty. “You wanted a report when the eagle landed.”

“What?”

Henry makes a face. “Emma, _come on_ , it’s spy talk.”

“Oh, uh, right. Thanks for the report.” She salutes. “Who is the eagle again?”

He sighs in frustration. “I told you like ten times this morning. Mom’s code name is the eagle.”

Emma’s insides do a few cartwheels. “Gotcha. Can I get a report on this outfit?” She spreads her arms out, does her studliest twirl. “Is it too much?”

“Spies are not outfit experts.”

“Says the spy who has seen every season of Project Runway.”

“Okay, okay.” He studies her carefully, his little brow furrowed. “The leather jacket is nice. So is the white tee shirt, but your jeans have a hole in the knee.”

“That’s on purpose.”

Henry looks skeptical. “If you say so.”

“So the eagle’s here, huh?”

“She’s getting ready.”

“Should I wait downstairs or would that be weird?”

“It’s weird that you’re so worried.”

She laughs. “Is that your professional opinion as a spy?”

“Spies don’t worry about this kind of stuff.” Henry makes a very serious face. “Hear that? The eagle is leaving the nest.”

“I honestly don’t know what that--”

“Just go downstairs, Emma.” And Henry’s shoving her towards the door.

 

 

 

 

“Hello,” Regina says, and Emma has to suppress the strong urge to groan. _Fuck_. Regina may be swearing up and down that this is a night between friends, and Emma may or may not be doing her best to support that statement, but Regina’s wearing the little black dress from Emma’s deepest fucking fantasies, and there’s no way that Regina didn’t just give her a _look_ in return.

Over his mother’s shoulder, Henry is giving Emma an enthusiastic thumbs up from the stool. He hides the thumb when his grandmother looks in his direction, dramatically pretending to be examining the ceiling. 

Regina bends to give her son a kiss on the forehead. “ _Ten cuidado_ ,” she says, and then turns to her mother. “Make sure he’s in bed by ten or I’m sending _el cuco_ after him.”

“Mom,” Henry whines, giving him mother his best adult expression. “I’m not little anymore.”

“Fine,” Regina says. “Be in bed or I’ll be the one you answer to, and I’m much worse than _el cuco_.”

The way Regina’s feigned stern expression breaks into a smirk just before she kisses him on the cheek, the way he beams up at her when she ruffles his hair; it’s funny how that’s the kind of thing that makes Emma’s stomach flip a few times.

Regina turns to her and Emma catches just a little bit of that smirk herself. “So,” Regina says. “Are we ready?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, because she’s never been more ready for anything in her life.

 

 

 

 

“Did I or did I not say that no one would recognize you here?”

A man exiting the bar swerves out of Regina’s way to vomit onto a car.

“I don’t think they’re capable of recognizing anything,” Regina says, gingerly stepping away from the mess. 

“Is it a dive bar? Sure, but I guarantee there’s no reporters or political analysts in here, waiting for you to give them the scoop.”

The vomiting man has been joined by another vomiting man, who is trying to start a fistfight.

“See?” Emma says, perhaps too cheerfully for Regina’s taste, judging from the look on her face. “Everyone’s obliterated, we’re great.”

 

 

 

 

Emma pretends like she had no idea it was karaoke night. Regina changes her order to a Manhattan with Maker’s. Emma raises an eyebrow. 

“Fancy whiskey, huh?”

“If we’re going to sit here and listen to alcoholic renditions of Frank Sinatra, then I’m going to need something stronger.”

Emma gestures to the bartender to double the order. He gives her a look.

“Maker’s Mark for yours, too?”

She makes sure she’s out of Regina’s earshot. “Just the well whiskey for mine, Clive. Add it to my tab.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ah, sure. The Emma Swan tab. Let me get out my ledger and giant feathery quill.”

She slides him a ten. “Jesus, Clive, you know what I mean.”

When Regina has gone to ‘brave’ the restroom, Clive leans across the bar. “You trying to impress this one?”

Emma blushes. “Yeah, sure.”

“What the hell did you bring her here for, then?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m sure your cheap ass doesn’t factor in at all.”

“Do you want a tip, Clive? You’re fishin’ real close to the ‘no tip’ zone.”

“Fine, fine.” he says, rolling his eyes. “She’s too pretty for you, I’m just saying.”

When Regina returns from an experience she says she cannot possibly recount, Clive slides them their drinks with two paper umbrellas stuck in them. Regina stares at her Manhattan for a good minute before Emma snatches the umbrella out of it and gives Clive the glare of a lifetime. 

“Just tryin’ to class them up for you,” he shrugs. “Excuse my caring ass.”

 

 

 

 

Two Manhattans, a Tequila sunrise, a shot of Jim Beam, and something Clive called the ‘Dirty Sea Captain’ later, and Regina rests her hand on Emma’s thigh when she laughs. A bachelor party has taken over the microphone and Regina keeps snorting into her drinks and Emma is tipsily ranting about karaoke.

“No, see, everyone says that ‘Freebird’ is their karaoke song, right? But most of them are posers.”

Regina raises an eyebrow, that smirk playing at the corners of her perfect, perfect mouth. “Posers?”

“Right, total posers. Because it takes a very rare and damaged-ass person to actually relate to ‘Freebird’. It takes someone whose soul is black enough to walk away from love against all their better judgments, who is totally ready to own the fact that they can’t be changed, right? It takes someone who owns all of their messed up parts to get what that song is about.”

“And you’re that person?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Regina is clearly suppressing a laugh. “Your soul is black enough to do what again?

“To just get up and walk away from love because -- _oh._ You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Regina says, and now the laugh has no choice but to come bubbling through. She covers her mouth with her hand, blushing ever so slightly when she catches Emma’s look. “I’ve never seen you get so passionate about anything before, and it was a defense of a karaoke song of all things. It’s just...you know. It’s a bit ridiculous, Emma.”

Emma rolls her eyes, taking a swig of whiskey. “Everyone’s in it for the goddamned air guitar solo anyway.”

In the meantime, one of the drunk guys from the bachelor party has kicked the others off stage, shrieked that he needs them to play ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ stat, and is holding the microphone as if he’s trying not to puke on it. Regina nods at him over her drink.

“What about this fellow, the one who wants to sing Journey? Would you deign him worthy of that song?”

Emma shrugs. “I’m pretty sure ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ is a metaphor for the Reagan administration, so whatever.”

There’s a new smile playing at Regina’s lips, something that seems to Emma’s buzzed eyes to be a cross between amusement and much further interest. “You’ve had a lot of time to think about this.”

“I had a foster dad who played this stuff all the time. Mullet, big ol’ skull painted on his tailgate, the whole nine yards. He wasn’t a bad guy so long as he wasn’t drinking. Told me that everything I need to know about love is already in a Johnny Cash song. Falling into rings of fire and all that.”

Regina’s voice is soft enough that Emma can barely hear it over the very bad singing going on at the other end of the bar. “June Carter wrote that one, actually.”

“No shit.” Emma gives up on suppressing a grin. “We’ve got a goddamned country aficionado over here. Two shots of Jim Beam, just for this auspicious moment.”

“Don’t get too excited. I happen to like that particular song, it doesn’t make me an expert on the subject.”

“Is that what you’re going to sing, then?”

“Sorry?”

“For karaoke. Are you going to drag me into a duet of ‘Jackson’ or what? Because let the record show, I am totally up for it.”

Regina laughs out loud. “I will definitely not be singing, no.”

“Don’t make me beg, Mayor Mills. I will get down on my knees if I have to, I swear.”

“Much as I’d enjoy that, Miss Swan, no, not happening. Not in this century, at least.”

“What do I have to do to get you to sing? Name a thing, any dumb thing, and I’ll do it.”

Regina groans, orders another Manhattan. “Try to give up before you embarrass yourself.”

“I’m willing to embarrass myself.”

“I’m sure you are.” Regina crosses her legs, those legs that Emma cannot help but glance down at because a flash more of Regina’s thigh is exposed by the motion and fuck, _fuck_. “I don’t want your humiliation to be in vain, Miss Swan. I’m not going to sing, and that’s the end of that.”

 

 

 

 

Two more drinks and Emma getting on her literal knees, and Regina is belting out a Spanglish edition of Celine Dion’s ‘The Power of Love’.

It’s somewhere between the first verse and Regina switching her hips back and forth during the chorus that Emma feels something she hasn’t felt in a long time. She knows exactly what it is, she knows its name and she knows what it means and it terrifies her.

 

 

 

 

“This was fun.” Regina smiles too quickly. “You’re fun.”

Emma shrugs, scuffs her boot on the ground like a teenage boy on a first date, knowing she’s blushing but hoping the whole being drunk thing is enough to hide it. It’s last call and they’re two of the final patrons, Emma only half-leaning against her stool. “Booze is fun. Try not to confuse me and booze.”

“I know the difference between you and alcohol, Miss Swan.” And now it’s Regina’s turn to turn a little redder. “I don’t get a lot of chances to let go anymore. It’s nice to feel like it’s...safe for me to do that.”

Emma doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s too drunk to think about what it would mean to be this other person’s safe space, to know that she’s someone who is trusted and depended on and...and whatever else Regina feels.

“I’ll call the cab,” she says, and Regina nods slowly, her teeth catching on her bottom lip. Emma wishes that lip didn’t make her ache like a fucking punch in the gut. When Regina’s fingers close around Emma’s wrist, the ache turns to an all out _pain_.

“Emma, I--”

“Regina,” she says, and shakes her head. “We’ve had fun. I like being your friend, I like drinking with you. Let’s not...let’s not ruin it.”

It’s the way the light fades in the other woman’s eyes that does it for Emma. It’s that sudden coolness in Regina’s features, the way she pulls her hand away and then cradles it against her front, a fist. Emma could collapse.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Regina says, and leaves for the ladies’ room. And it’s that minute before Emma shakes her own head, curses under her breath, and follows her.

 

 

 

 

“Regina.” She tests the air with her name, and it’s a grungy dive bar bathroom and the smell of cigarettes and it’s so not Regina, nothing about this place is the woman that Emma has come to know over the last few months. She doesn’t want this to be the place they talk about...whatever this is, but she knows it’s coming. 

Regina is at the sink, adjusting her lipstick. She meets Emma’s eye in the mirror, and then cooly looks away.

“I’d prefer not to embarrass myself, Miss Swan. Whatever you came here to discuss, I’d rather we just pretend there’s nothing to say and move on.” Regina turns to face her, dabbing carefully at the edge of her mouth. “Or am I wrong?”

Emma snorts, leaning against the wall. “Sometimes I hate that you’re so fucking intuitive, you know that?”

“So I’m not the only one who thinks this would be a terrible idea, good.” Regina’s pulled her jacket closer around her, and the way she zips it up seems like a final gesture. “I didn’t expect that, you know. I thought of the two of us, you’d be the one with less control. What a surprise when you’re the sensible one and I’m the one trying to...well, it doesn’t matter.” She sighs, leaning back against the sink, her ankles crossing. “I think I was hoping that you’d indulge me, actually. I should probably thank you.”

“You wanna keep talking about this without actually defining what it is, or should I come out and say it?”

Regina purses her lips, frowning. She shrugs. Emma laughs a little too harshly.

“Fine,” Emma says, and she pulls her hands out of her pockets, shows her palms. “I want you. I want this to happen. I’d have you right here if I thought I had the chance, but I’m also pretty sure that you’ve made up your mind as much as I have.”

Regina gives away nothing in her expression. Her eyes narrow, only for a moment, and then she crosses her arms. “I can’t afford to be irresponsible, Miss Swan. I can’t afford it anymore than I can afford to pursue the things I want. I gave up that right a long time ago.”

“I can’t do it.” Emma grits her teeth. “I don’t want to hurt you, Regina.”

Regina’s the one who scoffs now. “Does that make you feel noble, when you save the ladies from yourself?” Regina says the words as if there are quotation marks around them. “I’m sure they always appreciate being made to feel that they are incapable of deciding if your bad boy aesthetic is going to harm them or not.”

“That’s not--”

“I don’t know whether to feel honored or foolish. I used to feel sorry for them, the girls you always talked about, the ones who were so upset that they couldn’t have you. And now here I am, one of them.”

Emma’s breath catches in her throat. She can’t respond to that, can’t think of anything to say when Regina is looking at her like that.

“Like I said,” and Regina’s tone is even more resolute now, her mouth set to a determined frown. “I didn’t come here to embarrass myself.” 

When Regina walks past and out the door, she will not look at her. And Emma, she can only consider her feet.

 

 

 

 

And it boils, and it boils, and it fucking boils. The cab ride is silent, and the walk to the front door is silent, and all the while Emma is feeling like an idiot for not being able to look at this woman without being consumed by want and need, without feeling an infinite tenderness and simultaneous fire in her heart. 

In the foyer, she takes Regina’s hand. It’s 3 am, and Cora and Henry must be asleep upstairs. Not that Emma’s using actual logic and reasoning to work her way through this.

“What if I asked you to decide right now?”

Regina gives her a particularly unsettling look. “Really, Miss Swan.”

“I’ll only ask once, and whatever your answer is now, we’ll honor it. That’s how we move forward. No more walking circles around it, no more avoiding it. I ask, you decide, and that’s the last we hear about it.”

Regina’s expression shifts, and even in the near dark of the foyer, Emma can see the new fire in her eyes. “Ask me, then.”

“Do you want to have sex?”

Every noise in the house seems louder: the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, the shifting of every beam, their simultaneous breathing. Emma hears the creak of the floorboard under Regina, and then she is leaning towards her, their cheeks brushing.

“Yes,” says the whisper at her ear. 

And that is how the mayor of Brooke City starts an affair with her nanny.

 

 

 

 


	12. in which there is finally something to be done about all that sexual tension

 

 

 

 

Emma’s no stranger to a mattress. Same applies to floors, sketchy club bathrooms, and any number of couches from ratty to out of her league. There was a time she could go into sex with all the confidence of a professional and the care of a stray dog, but all the want in the world and she’s still feeling like a kid leaning in for her first kiss.

What if she fucks it up somehow? What if Regina doesn’t like it? What if she’s too hard, or too gentle, or too --

Regina kisses her. The Mayor of Brooke City places one hand on Emma’s cheek and she kisses her.

“Shit,” Emma whispers. “I thought that was gonna be my move.”

Regina laughs into Emma’s cheek, lips brushing against her skin again. “You have _moves_?”

Emma grins through the kisses on the edge of her mouth, down her jawline. “Don’t want to give too much away. Shouldn’t spoil the surprise.”

“Really, Miss Swan,” Regina says, and even though she’s leaning against the wall of the foyer, she’s pushing her weight back into Emma’s chest. She’s breathing harder, Emma can see that and _feel_ it clearly, and fuck, when she looks up at her with her lip pinned under her teeth, when the exasperation in her entire body is that tangible, fuck.

“I think we’re beyond ‘Miss Swan’, don’t you?”

Regina smirks, the kind of smirk that can tear a person in half from clit to collarbone. “I don’t know. The formal has a certain ring to it, don’t you think? Makes it easier to give _commands_.”

Oh, shit. “Should have figured you’re fucking pushy in bed, too.”

That smirk again, and this time Regina’s flattened her hands against the wall behind her, looking at Emma with nothing short of a challenge in her eyes. “I know the way I like things. Why shouldn’t I get my way?” There’s a moment when she shifts her legs, the way her eyes glaze over and Emma knows she’s rubbing her thighs together, almost squirming.

“So it’s gonna be like that, huh?” 

“ _Claro que sí_ , Miss Swan. I am the mayor, after all.”

“Even mayors have their vices.”

 

 

 

 

Emma finds out that Regina’s vice is being restrained. She finds this out when Regina produces a tie and insists Emma bind her wrists. She finds this out on the couch, and the table, and then again on the kitchen counter.

Regina also likes being bitten. Hard. Turns out that locker room talk all those months ago, the one about tightly-wound authority figures who need to let go and get hardcore dominated, well. It had some serious merit to it.

 

 

 

 

Regina’s sitting on the kitchen counter, her knees on either side of Emma’s hips, her fist in Emma’s hair, half of the silk restraint dangling from her wrist. There’s the bright red outline of Emma’s teeth at her shoulder where her dress has been tugged down, and the noises she’s making...okay, they’re officially past the point of trying to keep it quiet.

And even though her head keeps tilting back, and even though half of what she’s saying isn’t in English -- all Emma can understand are the commands accompanied by tugs of her hair, nails down her back when she’s deeper -- _más adentro, más adentro_ \-- or when Regina had bent over the counter, given her that look -- _pégame_ \-- now, on the counter, with the _more, Miss Swan_ s in her ear -- Emma can’t stop staring. The line of Regina’s neck in the moonlight of the kitchen, her dress hiked up to her thighs and Emma wasn’t even surprised to see the black lacy number that ended up hanging off Regina’s ankle, now shivering like a leaf with every thrust. 

It’s Regina that Emma’s staring at when she sees the light across her face, hears the gravel in the driveway. When she pauses, Regina just about scores her back.

“I didn’t tell you to _stop_ , Miss Swan,” she groans, but she’s still writhing, and Emma’s attempting to clear the sex fog from her head to process what’s happening.

“I think...I think someone just pulled in the driveway?”

Regina clamps down on Emma’s earlobe. “Impossible. It’s at least 3 in the morning.”

Emma glances over Regina’s naked shoulder to the clock in the corner of the kitchen. “Try 4:10.”

But there’s an angry series of knocks on the door, causing both of them to jump. Regina ends up wrapping her arms around Emma’s neck, a strangely tender gesture after something that was decidedly _not_ , and Emma steps back, fishes around in the dark for her tank top. Regina’s pulling her dress up, shaking her hair out with her fingers, and she looks over at Emma, makes a face that is just about enough to freeze all of Emma’s reproductive fluids forever. Whoever is at the door has no idea what is coming to them.

Emma hangs back in the foyer when Regina goes to the door, smirks a little when she sees Regina take half a second to compose herself before flinging it open. There’s just something in the way she smoothes down her dress, the way she rubs with her thumb at where her lipstick has ever so slightly smeared. It’s just...is it possible to be turned on by everything this woman does? Emma is willing to take that fucking challenge.

She’s also glad it’s Regina there, because the site of _four cops_ at the door would be enough to shake that composure altogether. Not Regina, though, resident ice queen. She raises an eyebrow at them, tilting her head slightly.

“Can I help you, officers?”

“Uh, ma’am, we received a report of a break-in at this address.”

Regina’s tone goes from irritated to guillotine-edged. “You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not, Mayor Mills. We got a call saying that there were burglars at the residence.”

Emma hears a squeak somewhere above her, and turns to see Henry at the top of the stairs, peering over the banister.

_Oh, shi-_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You called the _cops_?”

“Did you see them, Emma?” Henry can barely contain his excitement. Emma’s trying to keep him on the sofa, but he’s squirming around, staring between his mother talking to the officers and the now lit kitchen. “They must have left pretty quick to be gone by the time you woke up! Man, they were making all kinds of noise, I can’t believe I was the only one who heard them.”

“Henry, remember when we talked about calling 911? What was the thing we’re supposed to know about calling 911?”

“Only call it in emergencies, not just when Emma gets her hand caught in jars.” He makes a face, almost straining out of his seat. “But Emma, this _was_ an emergency. There were burglars. I could hear them making weird noises in the kitchen and stuff.” He suddenly looks very pleased with himself. “I probably saved all of us from being murdered in our sleep.”

“Okay, let’s not jump to those kind of conclusions--”

“ _Abuela_ , did you hear them? Did you hear the bad guys?”

Cora is perched delicately on the edge of her chair, neatly dressed in a silk robe that probably costs more than Emma’s car and its insurance combined. Her hair is wrapped in an Hermès scarf, and it’s getting to the point where Emma can’t even be surprised anymore, not when it comes to Cora. Apparently she had time between being awoken by Henry and responding to police at the door to reapply all her makeup and put on her pearls.

“I did not, _querido_.” And at this, Cora makes very calculated eye contact with Emma. “They must have been making _quite_ a commotion, though.”

Emma hopes she isn’t turning red, especially since Regina’s in the other room and beneath the sweater she miraculously pulled on is a series of bite marks that, were a forensic examination to occur, match perfectly with Emma’s dental records, so. There’s that. 

There’s also the fact that she thinks she still _smells_ like Regina, like a combination of sweat and want and...cilantro, of all things? That might be due to the fact that at one point they were against the window where Regina’s pots of cilantro take up residence, and it’s entirely possible that part of Regina was directly pressed against part of the cilantro plants, but--

“Emma.” Regina’s standing in the doorway, one of the cops behind her. “Can you come and confirm something for the officer, please?”

“Uh, sure.” She steps into the foyer, where Regina pulls them even farther away from the living room. She’s also speaking in close to a whisper, and the cop is following suit, although something tells Emma that if Regina says jump to an officer of the law, that bugger says how high, ma’am.

“We’re not filing a report,” Regina explains. “Because there was no break-in. This was a misunderstanding, and the officers have heard that, and they’ll be on their way soon.” She turns to the officer, gesturing at Emma with a hand that was definitely not clawing lines into Emma’s back earlier tonight. “Miss Swan is my nanny, and she was also downstairs at the time of the reported burglary. She can confirm that there was no entry, forced or otherwise.”

Emma nearly chokes on the burning desire to make a very poor joke about entries and re-entries, but instead nods furiously. The officer’s giving her an odd look, and fuck, does he know? Does he know that only a half hour before she was wrist deep into the mayor of Brooke City and it was _incredible_ , it was abso-fucking-lutely incredible, it was the most--

“Emma,” Regina says, and even with the whisper, there’s something ever so slightly terrifying in her tone. “Can you confirm for the officer that there was no break-in?”

“Yeah. I was downstairs the whole time, definitely no robbers.” She’s nodding now, narrowing her eyes and attempting to look completely serious, like she’s usually downstairs with her employer in the wee hours of the morning, just doing non-sexual things while not witnessing burglaries. “Is that it?”

The cop lets out a sigh and puts away his pen, shrugging at the two of them. “I’m awfully sorry, Mayor Mills. If we had known, we wouldn’t have come all the way out here and disturbed you. I’m sure the police commissioner will be sending you his apology tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Regina’s smile is so chilled that even an exhausted policeman is going to catch its meaning. “Thank you again for the unexpected social call, officer.”

 

 

 

 

Henry is poised on the edge of the couch, awaiting his mother’s verdict. He just about leaps into the air when Emma and Regina walk back in, eagerly grinning at the two of them.

“What did the cops say? Are they gonna catch the bad guys?” 

And before Emma can say anything, there’s a hand gently squeezing her wrist, and Regina’s kneeling in front of her son.

“They said that it was lucky for the rest of us that you were so vigilant and heard the bad guys come into the house. They said to tell you that you were very brave.”

And Henry, even though he’s obviously trying very hard to keep a straight face, even though he’d probably like very badly to be a grown-up about this, he beams and beams.

 

 

 

 

There’s the very awkward moment when they’re all heading to bed -- two of them for the second time, two of them _pretending_ it’s for the second time. Henry can’t stop talking about how they’re going to figure out who the burglars are, and whether or not the cops will let him ride along when they arrest them. Emma manages to promise him that she will take him to the ‘On the Run’ tour next year if he promises to close his door and immediately fall asleep. Cora makes pointed eye contact with both Emma and Regina before wishing them both a “restful night” and retiring to the extra guest bed.

This is how Emma finds herself alone in the hallway with Regina.

“So, uh,” she starts, and then immediately forgets whatever it was she thought she could say. 

“So.” Is Regina blushing? Oh god, she _is_. “We should probably get to bed, Miss Swan.”

“We probably should.”

“It’s been an eventful night.” 

Emma grins. “It has, hasn’t it? _Very_ eventful.”

“You took me to a murder hotspot, and I seem to recall that I sang a song.” Regina lets her sweater drop ever so slightly, and Emma can see the pink of a bruise just forming at her shoulder. “And then the cops came.”

“The cops weren’t the only ones that came tonight, actually.”

Regina’s face is the visual manifestation of _can you not_. Emma mouths ‘sorry’ and takes a step towards her, closing the distance between them for the hundreth time tonight. “Miss Swan.”

“Yes, Mayor Mills?”

“What are you doing right now?”

“Uh,” Emma starts, suddenly confused. “I was going to make out with your face, but now I am questioning that decision.”

Regina smiles and suddenly her smile is unreadable, suddenly Emma isn’t completely sure what she’s supposed to be reading in that particular curve of her lips. Regina leans in, kisses Emma chastely on the edge of her mouth, and then takes two definitive steps backwards. “You should sleep in your own bed tonight, Miss Swan.”

“I should?”

“Yes, you should.”

 _Fuck, wait._ “Okay, sure.” Emma tries very hard not to look disappointed, but she’s sure Regina’s seen it because Regina’s been able to unzip her with a glance for a while now. It’s just that they never actually defined if this was going to be a one time thing, and it’s not like either one of them has ever said outright that this is what they want, this whole crazy thing that just happened tonight. 

But then Regina’s smirking -- there’s a moment of indecision, Regina taking a deep breath just before that smirk and then there’s something almost _wicked_ in a smirk like that -- and she hands Emma a small bundle of black lace. It takes Emma a breathless minute before she realizes just what it is.

“I’m the mayor, Miss Swan. I’m a mother. I’m also your employer. I have to be very responsible, and I think we both know what that entails.” The smirk is complimented by a quick flick of Regina’s eyebrows. “Consider that token an I.O.U., as in I owe you a favor, and on a future occasion you can come and collect. Is that reasonable?”

“Very reasonable.” Emma manages to nod, her fingers curling instinctively around the pair of black lacy panties that are now bunched up in her fist. Panties that only a few hours ago she was removing from the mayor of Brooke City.

“Wonderful, we’re agreed.” Regina gives her yet another one of those looks. “Sweet dreams, Miss Swan.”

Oh, that’s a fuckin’ given.

 

 

 

 

When Emma checks her phone, she has 12 missed calls and 40 texts, all of which are from Ruby and along the theme of “did you do the deed you so totally did the deed didn’t you I knew it I knew it I goddamned knew it.”

She decides a few more hours of wondering won’t hurt her.

 

 

 

 


	13. in which it is time to deal with the inevitable aftermath with a series of 'i told you so's

 

 

 

 

The thing about having a quiet little thing with your employer, particularly when your employer is also the mayor and also a high profile mayor and _also_ you are the nanny, is that it can’t really be done. Sure, you’ll try your hardest not to stare at her like there isn’t a magnetic pull between your pupils and her extremely well-formed ass. You’ll put in a lot of effort to pretend you don’t know what she sounds like when she’s grabbing your neck and insisting you go a little deeper, dear. You can do your darndest not to gaze outright when you’re all having breakfast and the way she precisely slices her waffle strikes you as weirdly erotic. It doesn’t erase the fact that you still taste ever so slightly of her, and she keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs like there’s a very important meaning to the gesture.

And that’s just in the first four hours of it.

 

 

 

 

Emma heads to the gym, because maybe deep down she really is a complete Neanderthal and something about working up a sweat helps her process things. There was a point when Henry kept bringing up burglars and Regina had bent over the table, her blouse just open enough to show off the same bra Emma had seen the night before, and _shit_ , that was it. She was done. Cora cleared her throat in a very pointed way and Emma had excused herself from breakfast. Training session, she claimed, when Regina had looked so torn about her leaving. 

“Self-control,” she grunts to herself now, and goes for the bigger dumbbell. 

Without fail, her reps are interrupted by the insistent buzzing of her phone, and then, as if summoned by the twelve to fifteen times Emma had pressed ‘ignore’, the very presence of Ruby herself, swiping at Emma’s dumbbells in a slightly terrifying way.

“ _Spill, bitch_.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Emma glances down at Ruby’s ballet flats and striped leggings. “You’re not here to work out, are you?”

“I’ll give you a workout if you don’t tell me what the hell happened.” Ruby plants herself on top of some equipment that is not meant for human planting. “I was going to assume you were on your sixth hour of record marathon sexing, but then I saw an interview with the mayor on the news, which meant you had to be here, processing your feelings with deadweights.”

Emma self-consciously puts down her dumbbells. “Okay, first of all--”

“Don’t tell me I’m wrong, because I’m not. I am right as fucking rain.” Ruby makes wiggly motions with her fingers.

“What the heck are you doing?”

“I’m being rain.” Ruby continues to wiggle her fingers, dragging them through the air in front of Emma’s face. “Drip, drip, motherfucker. Tell me your secrets.”

“Honestly, there is not much to tell. We had some drinks, she drunkenly sang a ballad, we got home super late.” Emma chooses to use an incredibly fake cough to mask the final part of her statement. “And then we had sex.”

Ruby’s eyes narrow to a seemingly physically impossible size. “You what?”

“We also had waffles for breakfast, even though it’s not Waffles Wednesday. So that was pretty special, I guess.”

“I will address the fact that you have a day of the week set aside for a specific breakfast food right after you clarify the fact that you had sex with Regina Mills.” Ruby starts pulling plastic champagne glasses out of her bag, followed by a lowest shelf bottle of champagne. 

“Okay, that is _really_ not necessary and slightly insulting--”

Ruby snorts. “Did I say this was for you and your consummation situation? I’m celebrating the fact that I didn’t murder you before this all happened, since the level of obtuse you have been in the past few months is basically inhuman.” Ruby flags down a passing gym assistant. “ _Garçon_ , a corkscrew, if you please.”

The teenage assistant looks skeptically between Emma and Ruby, his mouth hanging open. “Uh, you really can’t have that in here--”

“I’ll take care of it, James,” Emma says, rolling her eyes and snatching the bottle from Ruby. “You’re going to get me fired, you know that? It’s also ten in the morning, just so you’re aware.” 

Ruby produces a carton of orange juice. “Bitch, they’re mimosas.”

 

 

 

 

“-- and that’s when Regina convinced the cops that it was a misunderstanding. She told Henry he’d saved the day, and we all went back to bed.”

“Okay, _but_ ,” and Ruby points a slightly buzzed finger in Emma’s face. “The important thing is _whose_ bed?”

They’re sitting in the far end of the Fit Royale parking lot, Ruby half-sprawled across the hood of Emma’s Bug, Emma camped out on the sidewalk. Ruby is drinking from the champagne bottle and chasing it with orange juice, which she explains is a ‘mouth mimosa’ that is simply ‘cutting out the middleman’. 

“We went to our own separate beds, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I mean, Henry was awake, Cora was awake, everyone was still very much awake. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

Ruby feigns shock and dramatically flips her hair. “The street urchin has become the cultured gentlewoman! Lo and behold, for she has said t’would not be appropriate to lay with the lady thus.”

Emma grins and takes a swig of orange juice. She makes a show of holding up her pinky. “Damn right I’m a gentlewoman.”

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Ruby says, pretending to wipe tears from her ears. “It’s just so beautiful. My little baby is all grown up, respecting boundaries and understanding manners.”

Emma shakes her head. “Excuse you, I’ve always had manners.”

“I had never seen you use a fork until this year.”

“I eat a lot of finger food.”

“How is guacamole a finger food?”

“You eat it with a chip!”

“You eat everything with a chip!”

“Actually, Regina doesn’t let me eat with Doritos anymore because Henry started doing it, so now he and I have sneaky nights once a week where we wait for Regina to leave for conference calls and then we use all the Dorito spoons we want.” She starts smiling just thinking of it. “That kid is the best, he really is.”

Ruby sniffs, and Emma can’t tell if it’s real or not. “Wow, Emma.”

“What?”

“You found a family.”

Emma finds herself sputtering, suddenly incapable of a good response. “No, it’s not like that. I’m his nanny.”

“You’re more like a weird dad slash cool aunt hybrid.”

“I work for them, remember? It’s not your family if they pay you to be there.”

“Is she paying you to eat her out, too?”

“Not funny, dude.” Emma tosses the plastic champagne flute in Ruby’s direction. It narrowly misses, hitting the already scratched headlight instead. “Trust me, I’m way past the whole wanting a family thing. If being an orphan taught me anything, it’s that the traditional family is dead, and what’s left is really fucking overrated.”

“But you guys aren’t traditional, that’s the cool part! You’re an independent mom and a child prodigy and a secretly sensitive human weapon. You deserve your own sitcom.”

Emma knows she’s blushing, but she shrugs, laughs it off. “You’re tipsy, Ruby.”

“You’re probably right. I think I’m going to go hit on that new lifeguard at the lap pool. He looks like a Ken doll with trust issues.”

 

 

 

 

It’s right when she’s leaving the showers that she gets a text from Regina, asking her to meet her for lunch at the Castle, the Castle being a very upscale hotel in downtown Brooke City. Emma stops at home to change into the shirt and leather jacket she assumes is worthy of lunch there, and is grateful for the foresight when she sees that Regina’s wearing a particularly nice blue dress that accentuates all her--

“Miss Swan.” Regina stands up when Emma sits down at the table beside the window, probably the premiere spot in the house. There’s something so formal about the gesture that it’s almost wrong, the way they avoid each other’s eye at first when they settle into their chairs, the way Regina folds and refolds her napkin. Emma clears her throat.

“How was your interview?”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “How did you--”

“There was a television on at the gym. I didn’t catch what it was about, though.”

“Zoning laws, not terribly interesting.” Regina is sitting upright, almost uncomfortably so. “How was the gym?”

“Sweaty, productive. The usual.” Emma glances at the menu. “Will you be totally insulted if I have a beer right now?”

Regina smiles a little, her rigid posture breaking. “I’m replacing my lunch with a mojito and a slice of cake, so there’s very little judgment here.”

“So we’ll be lunch culprits together, perfect.” Emma grins, gesturing to the waiter. “I’m about to order the cheapest beer on this list, and it is going to be embarrassing as hell.” 

“He won’t question it.”

“How do you know?”

Regina smirks. “Because you’re with me, dear. And like it or not, I’m the mayor of Brooke City.”

“That was a very boss thing to say.” Emma leans back in her chair, all that flirt and want and _fuck_ , she looks good, settling somewhere between her hip bones. “Is it weird that I am very turned on by the thought of you smoking a cigar and throwing money in the air?” 

“Am I wearing stilettos in this fantasy?”

“Stilettos and a blazer with a very tight skirt. Like a very sexy Hillary Clinton.”

“I’m much less fiscally conservative than Hillary Clinton.”

“That’s probably why the fantasy version of you is making it rain.”

 

 

 

 

Somewhere between Emma ordering the cheapest beer on the menu and Regina ordering a second mojito, Regina makes a very serious face over a very moist piece of chocolate cake.

“Miss Swan, there’s a reason I wanted you to join me this afternoon.”

“Besides us mocking the institution of lunch?” But Emma knows this is serious and she’s trying to show that she _can_ be serious, that this isn’t some weird huge mistake Regina’s made. “I figured as much, yeah. Look, if you...if last night was something you’re already regretting, I want you to know that it’s okay, I’m not ever going to ask for more than that, I can never bring it up again if you want. We can pretend that it never happened and that--”

“No, Miss Swan.” Regina’s reaching across the table, squeezing Emma’s hand in her fist. “ _No_ , that is not what I’m saying.”

“Oh.” Now Emma’s drawing a blank. “That’s good.”

“Have you told anyone about what happened?”

“About us?”

“Yes, specifically about us.”

Emma fights the urge to bite her lip and do that stupid thing she does where she reveals everything in her facial expression. “Would it be a bad thing if I had?”

Regina releases Emma’s hand, and if there’s meaning in that, Emma isn’t sure she wants to know. “I’m sure you understand how this would look, Miss Swan. I’m not saying I’m ashamed or that I regret it because I don’t, I’m not. I just know that there are certain types of stories that would be ripe for my political enemies to use, and me sleeping with my nanny is one of them.”

So that’s that, then. “I understand, yeah.”

“I am not asking you to disappear from my life, Miss Swan.” Something in her eyes flashes, just for a second. “Quite the opposite, actually. I’m just asking you to employ some discretion.”

“Discretion?”

“Do I need to define the word, Miss Swan? Or fetch you a dictionary?”

Emma snorts. “That sass is going to order me another beer, you know.”

Regina smiles, her fingers playing at her glass. “Whatever six dollar malt you can choke down, dear.”

 

 

 

 

There’s a blonde standing at the entrance to the restaurant, hair perfectly arranged, wearing a flawless white pantsuit with a purse that Emma can only estimate is about the same price as her apartment building. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses, but the second she looks at Emma, her whole body goes rigid. Bright red lips spread into a wide, almost terrifying smile.

“Uh, Regina? I think that lady is staring at us.”

“I’m sure it’s some trophy wife with a complaint about the lack of tax breaks.” Regina rolls her eyes as she turns around in her seat, only to blush uncharacteristically red when she spots the onlooker. Emma hears a “What the _hell_ ” under Regina’s breath before the woman is smiling and waving and pacing in their direction as if coming down a freaking runway.

“Regina Mills,” the blonde says, removing her massive sunglasses, and she’s got one of those voices that must have been raised to be charming and attention-worthy. Got one of those faces and bodies, too, damn. “I should have known I’d run into you here.”

Regina brightens up immediately, and it’s rare for her to smile that easily and that openly. Something about the moment makes Emma ever so slightly...well, jealous? Maybe?

“Mal,” Regina says, still grinning. “I thought you were in England.”

“Well, you know what they say about New England.” And at this, the blonde leans forward, looking at Regina in a positively hungry way. “It’s like England, but new. And you know how much I like new things.”

“So long as you can toss the old thing aside, of course.” Regina’s smiling back, and there’s a challenge there, right? Emma decides to take this opportunity to clear her throat, waving her beer in acknowledgment. The blonde finally takes her eyes off Regina and looks Emma up and down, making no attempt to hide her scrutiny.

“Who is this, Regina?” Mal smirks. “She is _adorable_.”

Regina seems suddenly very interesting in her mojito. “This is Emma Swan. Emma, this is...a very old friend of mine, Mal Drake.”

“For the record, she means ‘old’ in terms of how long I’ve known her. I assure you that I am only just on the cusp of cougar.” Mal’s tongue darts between her teeth. “You don’t look like a politician, Emma. I can’t imagine Regina spending time with anyone outside of her work, so I’m dying to know what you do.”

“Well, I’m--”

“Emma is a personal trainer.”

“Also her live-in nanny,” Emma adds, and feels a swift and extremely well-aimed kick to her shin. 

Mal’s eyebrow twitches. “Your nanny, Regina.” 

“Yes,” Regina says, and there’s something a little less friendly in her tone. “My nanny, Mal.”

“I’m also a personal trainer.” Emma decides this is as good a time as any to revoke her earlier statement, but Mal and Regina’s attentions are very clearly on each other.

“You should join us,” Regina says, still pink-cheeked. “Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

Mal smiles. “Nothing I wouldn’t cancel for lunch with an old friend and her... _nanny_.”

Well, isn’t this just a barrel of fucking monkeys.

 

 

 

 

Emma learns a few important things about Mal Drake during this meal:

Mal Drake is extremely rich. She and Regina have known each other since they were children, as their fathers were both senators and they were raised in the same circles. Mal went to private school with Regina, where they apparently spent a lot of time in short plaid skirts. Mal is very fond of gin and Prada, but neither hold a candle to how much she loves reminiscing about teenage Regina. 

“Do you know what they used to call her at the country club?” Mal is examining Regina over her martini glass, tongue playing at her top lip, and there’s something about it that makes Emma’s eye twitch. 

Regina pulls a face, but Emma takes note of the smirk there. “Do we have to dredge this up, Mal?”

“They called her _Chacha_ ,” Mal says, and Regina snorts. 

Emma stares between the two of them. “I don’t get it.”

Mal smirks at her. “They thought she was the gardener’s daughter.”

“That’s awful.”

“Well, they all got theirs in the end. Did you hear about Buffy’s new tits? They’re almost worse than her new lips.” Mal grins as if the very knowledge of this secret is causing her physical pleasure. “ And I don’t mean the lips on her face, by the way.”

At this, Regina nearly spills her drink with laughter. Mal is looking at Regina with such intensity that Emma has no choice but to become incredibly preoccupied with her sandwich.

 

 

 

 

“Okay, what just happened?”

Regina starts the Benz, playing it extremely cool. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, Miss Platinum McCountry Club. What the heck is the history there? Because I really don’t buy the ‘old friend’--”

“I believe the popular term is ‘frenemy’.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean ‘frenemy with benefits’?”

Regina shoots her a look. “The only benefit to interacting with Mal is that it gives me perspective.” 

Emma turns in her seat. “Regina, can I be frank?”

“You always are,” Regina deadpans. 

“Have you two had sex?”

Regina nearly hits the brakes in the parking lot. “Miss Swan--”

“Hey, look, we’ve all got that one friend where the lines blurred and things went down, it happens. I’m not saying that those vibes were present at lunch, I’m just saying that it kind of felt like she was simultaneously appraising me and slicing me into tiny little pieces with her eyes.”

Regina sets her jaw, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Her eyes narrow for a moment, and then there’s the slightest smile of recognition.

“You’re _jealous_ , Miss Swan.”

“You’re changing the subject, Mayor Mills.”

“I think your jealousy is very much on subject, dear.” Regina’s smirk is too much. “If you really must know--”

“Oh my god, you _did_ have sex with her.”

“She was a tennis player. She had very nice arms, quite like yours.”

Emma shrugs in her leather jacket. “My arms are definitely far superior to whatever her arms were like in the Jurassic Period.”

“You know I’m only five years older than you, Miss Swan.” Regina’s still smirking. “I’m sorry if that slightly ruins the MILF image you’ve built up for me.”

“I’m sure I’ll find some other aspect of you to help solve my mommy issues.” Emma grins. “So, are you going to tell me more about this torrid teenage romance, or am I just going to assume it was the plot of ‘Lost & Delirious’?”

“It was hardly a romance. We were young, we had some things to figure out.” Regina shrugs, though there’s still a half-cocked smile on her lips. “Let’s just say we figured them out.”

“And you’re not scared she would ever take this to the tabloids or something?” Emma snorts. “This is all pretty scandalous for a heterosexual mayor.”

At this, Regina raises a very serious eyebrow. “Did I ever say I was heterosexual?”

“Uh, no. You didn’t.” Emma’s not quite sure why she suddenly feels very stupid, but it’s something she’s getting used to around Regina.

“Well, you never asked.” Regina’s eyes are very firmly on the road. “Did you honestly think that last night was my first time in that particular sport?”

Emma huffs a little, partially a defense mechanism, partially because she really does find this completely ridiculous, that she could have ever just _assumed_. “Sports metaphors, great. No, after I had scored that many goals with so little interference, I did not think it was your first home run.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but there’s the tiniest smile returning. “Horribly done, Miss Swan.”

“I’m the nanny, not the kid’s English tutor.”

“Technically, you’re his bodyguard, but who’s keeping track?”

“Not you, as far as I know. Unless there’s nanny cams installed around the house that you haven’t revealed, in which case I will make sure to expose myself in as many rooms as possible.”

“I’ll have to get a few of those, then.”

“They’d better not capture the mayor and her nanny in compromising positions. You’ll have a media frenzy on your hands if those leak.”

Regina laughs, one of those laughs that tugs at Emma’s stomach. “I’m sure my campaign manager would love for me to have a sex tape somewhere on the Internet. That would just about make his day.”

“Well, we’ll have to get to work, then.”

Regina raises an eyebrow, a deadly smirk in place. “Miss Swan, are you cashing in that favor I owe you?”

“Not just yet, Mayor Mills.” Emma can’t help but grin, not when there’s this much tension and Regina’s looking at her that way and fuck, it practically hurts to be this close to her. “I’m trying to see how much I can get away with before I have to pull out favors. Measuring my boundaries and wiggle room, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of wiggle room, Miss Swan.”

 

 

 

 


	14. in which one of the plot points come to a head

 

 

 

 

Emma’s phone goes off during her afternoon sparring class. Lucky for her, she’s just finished her daily task of pulling overly enthusiastic middle-aged women off of each other and discouraged them from further slapping. Not that this will end up being the most difficult part of her day, of course.

“Is this Emma Swan?”

“Uh, yeah. Speaking?”

“This is Lana Darling, from Storybrooke Academy. I’m calling on behalf of the office of the headmistress.”

“Is this about Henry? Is he okay?”

“Well, he’s...the thing is that I’ve been trying to get in touch with Ms. Mills about meeting with us and picking Henry up from school this afternoon.”

“I should be down as the main contact. Regina’s not available during the day.”

“I understand that. Unfortunately, this is a bit more of a situation than simply retrieving Henry early.”

“Is Henry okay?”

“Henry is fine, Miss Swan. As I said, there is a situation at hand, and the headmistress would like to speak with Henry’s caregiver directly before taking him home.”

“Uh, sure.”

“It would really be ideal if Ms. Mills was also present. I’ve left a message with her assistant, but I can’t seem to get in touch.”

“Well, I can be there in twenty.”

“Thank you, Miss Swan. We’ll see you then.”

She definitely doesn’t speed the entire way to Storybrooke Academy. Definitely not.

 

 

 

 

Emma resists the temptation to let out a whistle when she sees the inside of the headmistress’ office. The combination of decadent old-school posturing and the posse of boys lined up in chairs across from the secretaries wide oak desk, two of them looking particularly worse for wear, well. It’s not what she expected to see today, that’s for sure. 

Especially not Henry Mills, the kid who insists that ballet is more athletic than football, sitting closest to the door, bruised knuckles forming two fierce little fists in his lap, staring straight ahead with all the determination of a seasoned rugby player.

“Henry?”

When he sees her, he bites down on his lip, his cheeks flushing. She wants to throw him a damn parade, that’s how it feels to have this much pride wash over her, but he’s already hanging his head a little, as if he doesn’t feel entitled to it. She notices the cut above his eye, but he’s nothing compared to the other two, their shirts as dirty as their faces are red, and one of their noses is caked in dried blood. They’re also at least twice his size, and keep sniffing as if they’re trying not to cry. She’s heard their names enough times to pick out both of them, the main bullies in Henry’s constant struggle. _About damn time._

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he starts to say, but she shakes her head, gives him a wink before turning to the secretary.

“I’m here to see the headmistress. I’m Emma Swan, Henry Mills’ nanny.” She makes sure to shoot a look at the two boys before adding, “I’m also his bodyguard.”

 

 

 

 

The headmistress is a thin blonde with an even thinner mouth, pursed in a smile that makes Emma think of spoiled dairy products. She regards Emma with a bit of confusion, but gestures to the chair in front of her desk.

“Miss Swan?”

“Present and accounted for. I’m Henry’s nanny. You must be the one in charge.”

She smiles curtly. “I’m Headmistress Tremaine. I appreciate you coming in to see us, but I was really hoping to speak with Ms. Mills.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that a lot today. In the meantime, what can I do you for?”

“It’s about the incident with Henry this afternoon.”

“Right, he finally took care of the bullies. I’m not saying that this school has apparently come to outlaw justice, but you know what they say about the corrupt police state and all that jazz--”

Emma is interrupted by the sudden, just about but not quite flustered appearance of the mayor, racing through the headmistress’ office door as if finishing a marathon. Regina takes the seat next to Emma, pausing only to shake the headmistress’ hand.

“I’m so sorry that I’m running late. I only just got the message from your secretary and came here as soon as I could.” She glances at Emma for a moment, something in her eyes betraying that cooler exterior. “I saw Henry in the hallway. I can only imagine what took place.”

“Well, we don’t have to leave it up to imagination.” The headmistress continues to smile that insincere little smile. “We’ve spoken to the boys about what happened. Apparently there was a verbal altercation between Henry and his friends--”

“They’re not his _friends_ ,” Emma interjects, though there’s a quick warning kick from the occupant of the seat to her right. The headmistress glances between the two of them before continuing.

“And following the verbal altercation, a physical fight followed. We’re not sure who started the actual incident, although from the current states of all three of the boys, it seems that your son was the one who came out on top.”

“Oh, I’d say that’s without question.” Emma has to stop herself from grinning. Regina shoots her a look before she can beam a little too much.

“An incident like this is traditionally a case for expulsion, Ms. Mills.”

Emma snorts. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

“We have zero tolerance for violence at Storybrooke Academy, Miss Swan. Our students do not pay tuition to be exposed to this type of brutal behavior. We consider them to be much more urbane, and lightyears above the immaturity of their less...fortunate peers in other schools.”

Regina nods. “Well, I’m glad something is finally being done about the situation. It’s troubling that it took this long to punish the boys for their behavior, but I’m happy to think that it’s the last Henry will have to deal with it.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” the headmistress continues, the smugness in her thin lips enough to confirm Emma’s initial suspicions of strongly disliking the woman. “While the other boys were certainly...how do I put this, _affected_ by this recent altercation, they are not the ones in question. Henry is the student facing expulsion.”

And just like that, this poor unsuspecting mortal has said the magic words. Emma can see the anger in Regina literally do a dramatic wind-up before the curveball that is her reaction.

“ _Expulsion?_ ” Regina’s tone has gone practically polar, that look in her eyes further evidence that anyone on the other side of this argument is about to experience a subzero effect. It’s this complete iciness that is Regina’s calling card in a situation that would otherwise dismantle most rational humans. Emma finds this display of power simultaneously terrifying and arousing, a confusing sensation. “You’re threatening my son with expulsion.”

“On the contrary, Ms. Mills.” The headmistress is suddenly much paler. “I’m not threatening expulsion. I am enforcing it.”

“I see.” Regina raises a single eyebrow in such an exacting motion that it makes Emma sweat. The gesture has the uncanny precision of a butcher’s cleaver. “I do have a few questions, though.”

The headmistress seems to think she has won some sort of reprieve. She smiles almost with relief. “Of course, Ms. Mills. I’m happy to discuss any aspect of my decision.”

“How many times did those miniature pricks torture my son, headmistress? How many times did you ignore the reports from teachers that the little walking crises of masculinity were treating Henry like their personal punching bag?”

“Well, I’m not, um...” The headmistress seems to take a moment to relocate her purpose in life. “You see, Ms. Mills, I’m not sure you fully grasp the situation.”

“Oh, I fully grasp the situation, headmistress. The situation you’re alluding to is practically transparent. I’m sure expelling the sons of Judge Frollo or Sheriff Nott would be far too controversial a decision, and besides that, it would cost a pretty penny to refund that new athletics center Governor Ratcliffe is paying for, wouldn’t it? Better to keep their ingrate offspring in class with all the special attention they rightfully deserve. We wouldn’t want to disturb their busy schedule of beating in heads and telling my son that his real mommy left him in a dumpster.”

“Mayor Mills --”

“Oh, now I’m the _mayor_? I thought you’d conveniently forgotten my title after realizing I wasn’t going to build the school a golf course for prepubescents. I’m sorry if the 10,000 dollars I pay in tuition a year isn’t as impressive as donating enough money for the children to have an espresso machine in the cafeteria. My mistake.” Regina very ceremoniously gets to her feet. “I’m doing something I should have done a long time ago. I am withdrawing Henry from the school. You can’t expel him if I pull him out first.”

“Well then.” The headmistress seems unsure of how to respond. “I will...I’ll have Lana draw up the paperwork. But I do think that this incident should be on his record, as evidence of his violence.”

“You genuinely believe Henry to be a violent student, headmistress?”

“I don’t think the parents of the boys he assaulted today would disagree with me.”

Regina lets out a sigh, as if she is monumentally over this. “Has anyone ever called you a coward, headmistress?”

The headmistress balks. “No, they haven’t.”

“Really?” Regina blinks at the woman, a predator taking note of an insignificant mite. “I find that hard to believe.”

 

 

 

 

“I think the headmistress just shit her pants.”

Regina rolls her eyes, reaching in her purse for her keys. “Trust me, she’ll recover.”

“Probably not in this millennia.” Emma glances over her shoulder at where Henry is a few yards behind them, dragging his feet and hanging his head. “You should have seen the kid, by the way. The look of determination in his eyes when I walked into the office, the way he gritted his little teeth next to those shitbags. I’m not gonna lie, Regina. I was proud of him.”

There’s a moment then, Regina drifting closer to Emma as they walk to the car, Regina taking a deep breath before looking Emma in the eye. She grabs the sleeve of Emma’s jacket, gives it a squeeze. “I’m proud of him, too.”

Emma knows her smile is a little more reckless, just from that touch. “Well, at least you finally have proof that I was worth the money.”

Regina snorts. “That remains to be seen.”

“Uh, you hired a bodyguard to teach your kid self-defense. I don’t know if you were paying attention back there, but you just witnessed positive proof that he defended himself in a pretty darn effective way. There’s your returns on the lesson fees, honey.”

Regina’s trying not to grin at this point, that’s apparent. “What are you itching for me to say here? ‘Truly, Miss Swan, you are a genuine bargain. I’m thanking my lucky stars that you taught my son to pummel bullies so effectively.’ Does that work? Is your massive ego satisfied?” 

Emma knows her smile is all too satisfied. “Someone is being awfully sarcastic for such a huge fan of my additional services.”

“Oh, those are additional services? In that case, these are very inflated rates.”

“You can’t put a price on quality.”

“Or quantity, apparently.”

“Uh, frequency of additional services is up to the client, Ms. Mills. It’s not my fault your family has the sleep habits of nocturnal mammals.”

“Well, maybe you should get more creative then.”

“Is that a client request?”

“It’s difficult to denote quality with such limited samples.”

Emma almost trips on her own feet. “Gotcha, absolutely. Will definitely take that into account to improve my services.”

Regina flashes an all-too-knowing smirk. “My hero.”

“Speaking of heroes,” and Emma casts a look over her shoulder, where Henry is dragging feet and looking guilty. “Hey Rambo, you gotta catch up. You’re trudging.”

“Am not.” Henry scrunches up his face before giving her a look. “This is obviously slogging.”

“You’re looking like a first class trudger to me.”

“To trudge is to walk heavily. I am slogging, similar to plodding, which is to walk as if bearing a great weight, real or metaphoric.”

“Finally starting to understand why you insisted on that fancy dictionary set for Christmas.”

Henry pulls one of his very serious expressions. “There’s no match for a great vocabulary, Emma.”

“Unless you’ve got two fists and a grudge against bullies. That’ll do you pretty well, too.”

Henry grins, and then remembers his commitment to solemnity, screwing up his face again. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Hey, you don’t need to feel guilty about this, not for a second.” She chucks him on the shoulder. “Even Luke Skywalker partied hard when they blew up the Death Star.”

Henry shakes his head. “ _Actually_ , unlike Leia and Han, Luke was much more solemn during the festivities. It was more important to him to give his father a proper burial than to celebrate with the rest of Endor.”

“Okay, but once he saw that Anakin had been reunited with ghost Obi-Wan and Yoda, he was totally cool with forgiving himself for doing the necessary thing, and just chilling with the ewoks.”

Regina lets out a sigh before unlocking the Benz. “It’s like the two of you are speaking Swahili, honestly.”

“Kid, you never need to be ashamed of doing the right thing. Your mom and I are proud of you, and the fact that you’re beating yourself up over something like this just shows how completely beyond those shitheads you are.”

Regina doesn’t even correct her on the shitheads bit. Instead, she kneels down and holds Henry by his shoulders, her nose close to his.

“You are my hero. You will always be my hero. Today you are just as much my hero as you ever were, and I am proud of you.”

“But Mom, you always say--”

“I know. Violence is not the answer, I know I’ve said that before. But seven months ago I made the decision to bring someone into our lives who would teach you to defend yourself, because I didn’t know what else to do, and maybe because it was the only option we had left. Henry, you did exactly what we hoped you would be able to do. You can’t be passively good in the face of active evil.”

“Emma said I could only fight in self-defense.”

Emma kneels down beside Regina, shaking her head. “What did they say to you?” 

“They said...they said that after school they were going to make me drink the toilet water, and I just...” Henry wipes his eye with his left fist, sniffs. “I was so sick of it. I didn’t want to deal with it anymore. I punched Rich in the face, and I kept punching. You always said to never swing the first punch, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry if you’re mad.”

“Kid, I don’t care if you were swinging one million first punches. I’m not gonna be mad at you for this, I’m just not.”

“I love you,” Henry says, and he wraps his arms around both of them, his face buried between their shoulders. Emma glances over his head to Regina, looks into those big brown eyes and knows that her whole world just condensed to a space of a few square feet. 

Regina smiles, closes her eyes.

 

 

 

 

Henry gets to eat a hot fudge sundae for dinner, just because.

Emma attempts to teach him to tie a cherry knot in his mouth, but Regina stops the lesson midway when they’re both sticking out their tongues in the middle of the ice cream parlor, loudly intoning “Mffom, ‘id I ‘oo it?” 

Henry rides home with his mother. This gives Emma the rare occasion to not have to listen to Kidz Bop in her own car. She plays their version of ‘Shake it Off’ anyway. She thinks she might have a problem.

 

 

 

 

“You know, Henry’s never told me he loved me before.” 

“Really? I would have thought he’d said it ages ago.”

They’re in Regina’s bed, most of Regina’s clothes having been distributed around the room in the last hour. Emma tugs absentmindedly on the strap of her own tank, a spot that Regina enjoys grabbing like reins when she’s on top. 

(Emma once made the grave mistake of referring to this position as cowgirl -- which, like, it _totally_ is, Regina -- but then Regina made some gasp-punctuated comment about how she was an _equestrian_ , not a cowgirl.

“I dated an equestrian once, but I thought that just meant the only meat she ate was fish.”

Regina had rolled her eyes, made that trademark grimace that only follows Emma’s poor attempts at wordplay, and bent low enough to bite down on Emma’s earlobe.)

“Well, I never wanted to rush him. I don’t...I’m not saying that it’s important to me. I don’t exactly throw that word around, you know? I tended to dive headfirst out of relationships before that conversation came up.”

Regina has the sheet pulled up over her breasts, her face lit by the emails she’s been checking on her Blackberry. She sets the phone down, looks over at Emma and the sheet falls, just enough for the fact that she doesn’t pull it back up to matter. “I know how much you care about Henry.”

Emma figures she’s blushing, but she’s grateful for the dark of the room. “Yeah, I know that you know.” 

“It’s strange when I look back. When I made the decision to hire you, I based that decision on your skill. You could have been a drill sergeant with a heart of stone, and if I felt that you would be able to offer Henry the best education in self-defense, I would have hired you. I didn’t think I was about to hire Henry’s new best friend, someone he’d come to idolize and love. If you’d told me then that this person was going to change his life, I don’t know if I’d have believed you.”

Emma runs her tongue over her teeth. “You probably didn’t think you were going to end up in bed with the new hire, either.”

“Right.” Regina smirks. “I saw the way you looked at me in the mirror.”

“Bitch, please.” Emma snorts, feigning shock. “How did I look at you in the mirror?”

“Like I was a very expensive cut of steak.”

“Bullshit. I looked at you like I looked at all of my students.”

“If I so much as smiled at you, you would forget our names for the rest of class. Once, I held your eyes for five minutes and then you referred to the door as ‘that thing that gets you from one room to the other.’” 

“You’re really ruining my reputation over here, Mayor.”

Regina rolls her eyes, still smirking. “Well, you weren’t a _terrible_ instructor per say, but it was a bit troubling when one considers how easily you could be distracted.”

Emma leans over, grinning down at Regina, who has now fully wriggled out of the sheets. “You are talking a whole lot of smack for someone who is a whole lot of naked.”

Regina writhes a little, a challenge in her expression. “And what do you plan to do about it, Miss Swan?”

And Emma continues to just really goddamned love the way this lady never says no to a second or third or fourth round. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

 

 

 

 


	15. in which they are mistaken for a couple even though they are not *technically* a couple

 

 

 

 

Emma wakes up in her own bed, as she usually does no matter the previous evening’s activities. It’s become an unspoken ritual between them: post-coital pillow talk (or no post-coital pillow talk, or any talk at all, because sometimes Regina wants to talk in bed and sometimes she wants to make noises that bear no resemblance to human language), maybe a final kiss, and then Emma slips back into her own room like a teenager avoiding a grounding. Not that it’s Emma who gets off on being punished, not exactly.

What’s important about Emma waking up in her own bed is that Henry is sitting on the end of it, in a pair of blue silk pajamas that seem better suited for a grandpa than this pre-adolescent boy. Such is the little dude’s style, as is his knack for figuring her shit out before noon.

“You weren’t in your bed last night,” he says matter-of-factly, and then calmly takes a sip of orange juice. It’s probably his mother’s fault that he is inhumanly good at interrogation when he wants to be.

“And a very _buenos días_ to you, too, Henrietta.” Emma gropes blindly across the pillow for her phone. “As for your assumptions, I’m in my bed right now, waking up, which seems contrary to your last statement.” 

Henry downs more of the orange juice, watching Emma with suspiciously narrowed eyes. “Well, you weren’t in your bed at 2 am.”

Emma pretends like this isn’t a complete curveball. “And how does someone with a bedtime of exactly 8:30 know who is in or out of bed at that late hour?”

“Bedtime just means I have to be in bed. No one ever specified that I have to be _asleep_ in bed.”

“It’s heavily implied in the instructions.” Emma sits up, throwing a pillow in his general direction. “But let’s not skip over the all-important question of what _you_ were doing keeping tabs on everyone at two in the morning. That’s how you become the most immature boy in the class, by the way. You don’t sleep and the growth hormones get all confused and the next thing you know, you’re wearing a lot of trenchcoats and complaining about the friendzone.”

This more or less breaks the interrogator, and Henry does one of his epic shrugs and eye rolls, finishing off the orange juice. “You know how important practice is to me, Emma. If I don’t have to be at school in the morning, I need to use this time to improve my surveillance skills. It’s my greatest weakness as an investigator.”

For the last month, or really ever since the incident with the 911 call, Henry has decided he wants to pursue a career in law enforcement. Regina, in a continued effort to never outwardly discourage her son’s dreams, has gritted her teeth and attempted to not show him that she feels zero positive feelings about the matter. Her personal vendetta against Brooke City’s chief of police does not help the situation. Emma secretly finds it super entertaining to watch Henry start babbling about how cool the cops are, only for Regina to bend a spoon in half and fake a terrifying smile.

“Don’t get used to this whole pajamas on a Monday thing. Your mom said it’ll be one week before you get a new school, tops.”

“That’s why she said to wake you up.”

“So there’s more to this social call than falsely accusing me of not being in my room last night?”

“I knocked--”

 _Oh sweet Jesus._ “A habit you’re going to drop real quick, by the way.”

“--and you did not answer.”

Emma pretends that she is not sweating under the sheets right now. “Maybe I was sleeping a deep and pleasant sleep.” _And definitely not with a fist inside your mother, that’s for darn sure._

“I opened the door--”

“Okay, a _definite_ thing you are going to stop doing right now.” Emma continues expert composure despite having an inner anxiety attack. “People need their privacy, Henrietta.”

“I had to make sure you weren’t dead!”

“I can pinky-promise you right now that I will remain alive every night even if you don’t check up on me.” She makes another gesture with a pillow. “So you’d better pinky-promise me that there’ll be no more surveillance, especially not at night and especially not involving opening people’s doors.”

“Fine,” Henry sighs and holds out his pinky. “I was just trying to be a good cop.”

“No such thing. ACAB, dude.”

“What does that mean?”

Emma pretends not to struggle through that particular improvisation. “All.... _cats_ are...beautiful.”

“What do cats have to do with the police?”

“What _don’t_ cats have to do with just about anything? It’s important to acknowledge the beauty of our feline friends.” She shrugs. “I love you, kid, but the sooner we find you a new school, the better.”

“That’s why Mom says to wake up. We’re looking at new schools today.”

“ _We’re_?”

“Right, you and me and Mom. It’s a family thing, so you have to come.” Henry gives her one last serious look. “If you weren’t in your bed, where were you?”

“Late-night workout.” _Not entirely a lie._

Henry continues to look far too adult and suspicious. “Well, I hope you’re not too tired to pick out my new school.”

“Says the kid who was up all night performing searches without warrants.”

Henry’s face falls. “I _knew_ there was something I’d forgotten.”

If Regina was there, she’d probably remind them that Henry’s disregard for proper procedure would only make him feel more at home on the police force.

 

 

 

 

Regina’s perusing the paper downstairs, just finishing her coffee. She’s in one of her mayor outfits, black pencil skirt and a blazer that makes her simultaneously intimidating and deeply, _ridiculously_ attractive. Emma clears her throat when she walks into the kitchen, just in time to be handed a freshly poured mug. 

“Chug that,” Regina instructs, pointing to the coffee. “We have an appointment at the Montessori School at 10.” 

“Right,” Emma says. “I’ll just give my mouth a third degree burn. Who could possibly suffer the consequences of my tongue injury?”

Regina doesn’t break for a moment, not even when Emma waggles her brows conspicuously. That’s the one thing that Emma still finds amazing; that she can spend the night in Regina’s bed or the free afternoon in the living room or the kitchen or the back of the Benz, that they’re consistently entangling in one another, and yet they can go about their day as the coolest of cucumbers. Not that Emma isn’t constantly filled with the need to run her hands all over Regina’s shapely backside at any given moment, but she’s keeping it together. For the most part. It only takes a bit of flirting on either one of their parts for Emma to start grinning like a kid in a candy store. A very attractive Latina candy store.

“Henry says this is a family thing. All of us looking at potential schools, me included.”

Regina raises an eyebrow over the last of her coffee. “Well, it is.”

“I just think that’s an interesting choice of words on his part.”

“They’re not his words,” Regina says, and as she puts her mug in the sink, she looks Emma squarely in the eye. “They’re mine.”

“Oh,” Emma says, and then forgets everything else for a while.

 

 

 

 

Regina, being the overly ambitious scheduling whore that she is -- or at least that is the title that Emma has bestowed upon her -- has put four different school visits on the timetables for today. Henry’s wearing a bowtie with his blue velvet blazer, and he keeps adjusting it in the rearview mirror from his vantage in the backseat, scrunching his eyebrows together in worry.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” He pulls on his collar again, making an expression that could only be made by an 11 year old. “Do I look weird?”

Emma gives him a thumbs-up. “You’re going to have to beat the girls off with a stick, kid. Or the boys, could be the boys, too. Let’s not burn the bridges before we get there.” 

“ _Muy guapo_ ,” Regina says, winking at him in the mirror. 

Once Henry’s put his headphones on (undoubtedly to listen to _I Am...Sasha Fierce_ ), Emma leans over. “So someone woke me up with an interesting story today.”

Regina only raises an eyebrow.

“Henry figured out I wasn’t in my own bed last night. Apparently he knocked on my door, and when he didn’t get an answer, he looked in my bedroom.”

This gets much more than an eyebrow raise. Regina gives the brakes an enthusiastic tap, a few yards early of the red light.

“And what did you say?”

“Obviously I deterred him with the totally convincing alibi of the 24 hour gym.”

Regina snorts, her voice lowering to a whisper. “He doesn’t believe you.”

“He might, I don’t know. I’m not the one who raised him to question literally everything.”

Regina shrugs defensively, though her knuckles are still white on the steering wheel. “Natural inquisitiveness is a healthy quality.” 

“Right, unless you’re trying to stealthily have sex with his mom.”

Regina gives Emma an ovary-curdling glare. “Miss Swan,” she whispers, a warning.

“Sorry, I clearly meant ‘hold hands on top of the blankets.’ Point is, you might want to consider investing in locks.”

“I don’t believe in locks,” Regina says. “If you want privacy, you should be able to close your door and have everyone respect that. I don’t want Henry to feel that we don’t trust him, and vice versa.”

“This is when I really wish you had some superfluous bougie-ass outer buildings like a poolhouse or a fancy gardener’s cottage.”

“There _is_ a gardener’s shed.” Regina gives Emma a mischievous look. “Are you volunteering to relocate?” 

“There’s enough tools in there without me moving in.”

“That’s horrible.” The driver of the vehicle stifles a laugh, though, and Emma loves the way Regina’s smiles come so easily these past few weeks. “Your absolutely horrible jokes aside, we do need to find a solution to this.”

“I don’t mind sneaking around if that’s what you think will work. I’m good at sneaking around.” And she means that, she does, because it’s not like in between all this sex and nannying and more sex that they’ve ever talked about what they’re doing. It’s not like at any point, even the quiet points of late night murmurs and semi-confessionals, that they’ve identified whatever this whole thing between them might be called.

“It’s a temporary solution,” Regina says, and then they don’t talk about it for the rest of the ride, which, Emma figures, is probably for the best.

Because when she thinks about what they’re doing, well. These sorts of conversations are never going to end well.

 

 

 

 

The Montessori place isn’t too bad, although Emma keeps forgetting how to pronounce its name and Regina is immediately skeptical of the grading system. While Henry’s sitting in on a session, Emma and Regina are in the teacher’s office, a buoyant blonde who refers to herself as Miss Alice and immediately offers them a plate of vegan gluten-free cookies labeled cheerfully as ‘Eat Me!’

“And before I begin, I’d just like to say that here at The Brooke Montessori School, we are _very_ open to all kinds of families.”

Regina smiles, slightly confused. “That’s nice.”

Miss Alice leans in even more conspiratorially, glancing emphatically between the two of them. “ _All_ kinds of families.”

 _Oh, shit._ “I’m her nanny,” Emma quickly adds, only to be forcefully joined by Regina:

“She’s my bodyguard.”

Emma realizes she is gesturing wildly at herself. “I’m a combination nanny-bodyguard.”

It’s Miss Alice’s turn to look very confused. “Right,” she says, and then sits back in her chair, seeming a bit defeated by it all. “Well, however one’s family evolves over time, we’re very supportive.”

“Let’s talk about SAT prep,” Regina says, through gritted teeth and one of those famously terrifying smiles, and Emma has to keep her head down to hide her laugh.

 

 

 

 

It seems more than coincidental that Brooke City PS 142 features a visit with the school counselor, who makes a show of pointing out the pamphlets in her office on same-sex families.

“We’re not a couple,” Regina says gingerly, elbowing Emma until she starts nodding.

“I’m the nanny-bodyguard hybrid. I’m a no-go zone.”

“I see,” the counselor says, not even bothering to hide her complete puzzlement.

 

 

 

 

They’re practically old pros by the third school. Or at least it feels that way, when Mr. Cogsworth at Brooke City International School adds immediately after shaking their hands that his school considers itself very open-minded.

“Yeah, I’m her nanny.”

Regina gestures between the two of them. “She’s my employee.”

“Whatever vibes you’re getting, it’s definitely not happening.”

“Ah,” Mr. Cogsworth says, and rubs his forehead gratuitously before taking a seat at his desk.

 

 

 

 

Which is why by the fourth school, Emma walks into the principal’s office and straight up introduces herself as the nanny.

“I don’t think we’ve ever had a nanny on a school visit,” he says, smiling over his impressive beard. “You must be very involved in Henry’s life.”

“Consider me one of the biggest investors in the Henry Mills life trust. I’m here to see his value doubled. More money, uh, more problems. Or actually less problems. I don’t...that was not the correct reference.”

Emma glances over at where Regina’s lips have pulled into a private smirk.

The visit ends up being their favorite, with Henry bounding back after his sit-in class all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and Regina finally agreeing with the grading policy. Just as they’re leaving, Dr. Mufasa grasps Emma’s shoulder and pulls her aside.

“Just for the record,” he says, his deep voice lowered to just above a whisper. “We’re a very open and accepting place, but we’re equally discreet.”

For a second, Emma can’t figure out what he’s talking about, but he gives her a subtle nod and she scrambles for a response. “It’s not like that, I’m just the--”

“Of course, Miss Swan.” And he pats her gently on the shoulder, continuing to smile that very knowing smile.

 

 

 

 

Henry barely touches his dinner, not when he’s excitedly planning all the friends he’s going to make and the classes he’s going to take. Regina reminds him that it’s a magnet school, and he’ll still have to test to get in, but there’s a smile in Emma’s direction, that Mama Bear brand of total and complete confidence in her offspring.

Later, Henry’s at his piano lesson -- a recent compromise between him and his mother in regards to the whole cop obsession -- and Regina’s in her study. Emma knocks gently, waits for the quiet invitation from the other side.

“Hey stranger,” she says, and Regina turns around in her chair, pulls off her glasses. The way she looks at her still manages to turn Emma’s stomach into a hurricane, and if her heart is currently circling the eye of the storm, it would not be the most unlikely thing. Emma holds up the twin gin and tonics in her hands, grinning. “I thought you might need some liquid refreshment. And some company, if you’re in the mood.”

Regina smirks, taking the drink from Emma’s hand. “Live-in nanny, bodyguard, now a personal bartender.”

Emma spreads her arms, taking a bow before collapsing in the armchair next to Regina’s desk. “I’m a triple threat.” 

“It’s hard to believe you’re still single.”

“Brooke City’s most eligible bachelor, right here.” She takes a long gulp of gin and tonic, something that almost seems necessary when the conversation takes this kind of a turn.

Regina’s smirk softens a bit. “So, what did you think of today?” 

“In regards to Henry’s possible school? Or in regards to every authority figure in Brooke City’s education system making sure we knew that they would be totally for us fucking?”

Regina rolls her eyes over her drink. “That was borderline ridiculous.”

“Is it, though?” Emma takes one last courage swallow before putting her drink down. “Can I ask a candid question?”

The raised eyebrow from Regina is not terribly confidence-boosting. “I suppose.”

“What’s the worst case scenario of the mayor sleeping with her nanny?”

Regina snorts. “Oh, you’re referring to me joining the ranks of any number of political sex scandals. Scandalous partner choices, inappropriate employer-employee relationships, the grand cliche of a political figure having an affair with the nanny or caregiver. This is what you’re talking about, correct?”

Emma doesn’t know why this makes her feel worse. “When you put it that scathingly, sure.” 

Regina seems to be taking a moment to think through her answer, accompanied with another small sip of her drink. She does not make eye contact with Emma, not until she starts speaking, and something about this gesture is a stone in Emma’s gut.

“My career is very important to me, Miss Swan. My son is very important to me. You intersect with both of those things in a very significant way. A way that, quite frankly, is difficult to ignore or avoid.”

“But you could avoid it.”

“Could I? I’m not sure if that’s possible. I’m saying that if I fuck up, I can only ever fuck up in a very big way.”

Regina rarely says fuck -- well, not unless Emma is milking it out of her with a few well-placed fingers. Emma feels defensive, even though this isn’t a clear-cut fight.

“We could always _not_ fuck it up, that’s a possibility.”

Regina’s finished her drink. She lets a single shard of ice sit on her tongue, pushing it back and forth in her mouth. Emma hates that she’s mesmerized by the movement.

“Do you remember what we said earlier in the car, about temporary solutions?”

“I’m moving into the toolshed, right.”

A tiny smirk from Regina. “I’m having a really good time with you. I don’t want you to doubt that, because I am. I am... _extremely_ content. I haven’t been this happy in a very long time. I think part of that is attributed to the fact that I’m refusing to think about all the ways in which this could come crashing down around us. I think it’s easier to just...live in the moment, extremely out of character as that may be for me”

“It’s been a month, Regina.”

“Has it?”

“Yeah, four weeks of me sneaking in and out of your bedroom like a fucking teenager. In addition to the other stray incidents, and you referring to my involvement as part of the ‘family’, whatever that means.”

“You’re important,” Regina says, her voice quieter. 

“To who?”

Regina rolls her eyes, the ice melting on her tongue. “You already know that he--”

“I know I’m important to Henry. That’s not what I’m asking.”

Regina says nothing. Emma puts her drink down, closes her eyes like the answer will be waiting for her, right there in the dark.

“If you want to keep having sex and not talking about it, that’s fine. Just be clear with me that that’s all it is so I can stop waiting for something else.”

“I’m sorry,” Regina says, no longer looking at her.

“It’s fine,” Emma lies. “I’m sorry if I’m being selfish or something.” She gets to her feet, gathering up the empty glasses. She’s about to leave when Regina’s hand is around her wrist, fingers held tight.

“Don’t,” Regina says, and Emma drops the glasses onto the carpet, pulls Regina onto her feet and into Emma’s arms. She can’t talk this out, she can’t think this out, but she can kiss her harder than she’s ever kissed her before. Regina groans into the kiss, digs her nails into Emma’s shoulders like she’s trying to bury something there. Probably not that far off, not the way they work.

And it’s right as Emma’s coming back up from between her legs, Regina’s fingers tangled in her hair, forcefully pulling, that it happens. Emma leans over to wipe her mouth on her own arm, her hand still inside, each thrust a gasp from Regina, who now claws at her back, drags her nails down Emma’s spine as if she hopes to tear her in half. Emma pushes her back up against the wall, Regina’s foot braced on the bookcase.

“Just tell me,” Emma grunts into Regina’s neck, nose pressed in close beneath her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Regina’s scratching seems much more concentrated. “ _You_ ,” she barely gets out between the other noises, the moans and the hard breaths. “I want you.”

“I’m not enough,” Emma says, three fingers now. 

“Yes, you are,” Regina says, turning to clamp down hard on Emma’s bottom lip. “You’re enough.” And then it replaces her gasp, because with each thrust she’s holding Emma tighter and tighter, the mantra in Emma’s ear: “ _You’re enough, you’re enough, you’re enough._ ”

And when she comes, finally, she comes so forcefully that she knocks her forehead into Emma’s and they both grit their teeth. Emma feels the pulse around her knuckles, Regina’s body pulling her deeper and closer. “You, Emma,” Regina hisses, her lips wet from Emma’s mouth. “I want _you_.”

 

 

 

 

They are lying on the floor of Regina’s study, a few inches apart. 

“You’re not selfish,” Regina says, her skirt still pulled up to her thighs. She sits up, smoothing it down. “For wanting something more than this.” 

“I never said I wanted something else.”

“More, though. You do want more.” 

Emma sighs, pulls herself back up into the armchair. “I’m starting to see your earlier point about how trying to talk this through is just a pointless bummer.”

“Then we won’t talk,” Regina says, a spark in her eye. She smirks at Emma, runs her tongue over her bottom lip. “May I ask you a candid question, in return for your candid question earlier?”

Emma rolls her eyes, doing her best Regina impression. “I suppose, Miss Mills.”

“Why don’t I ever get to do anything to you?”

“You...could, if you wanted to. I’ve never explicitly said no.” Emma uncrosses her legs, knowing her cheeks must be red. “I guess you never asked.”

Regina lets out a rough laugh, and then she’s on her hands and knees, crawling toward Emma. “How silly of me,” she says, and right there, on her goddamned knees in the goddamned study, Mayor Regina Mills unzips Emma’s jeans.

 

 

 

 


	16. in which there is a fancy event to attend and create new tensions

 

 

 

 

Emma knows the forecast for her Wednesday is rough fucking waters when the first person she sees all day is Regina’s campaign manager.

Manuel Zapata is sitting in the living room, a Sazerac -- his signature drink and apparently a drink he expects you to go out of your way to fix even if you don’t have half of the damn ingredients -- sitting on his knee. He and Emma have met on a number of occasions, enough times that she knows when and how to take him seriously, but his appearance never fails to surprise her. His silver hair is slicked to the side in a way that would probably make some older ladies throw their granny panties at his feet, and beneath the tiny American flag pin on the lapel of his very fancy suit is a fresh red rose, one he claims to have delivered to his residence each morning. He may appear to be a bit of a relic, but he’s charming, extremely respected, and as a result, a dangerous motherfucker. More than suitable for a mayor like Regina.

“Miss Swan,” he says, the ice clinking in his drink as he takes a sip. “How absolutely lovely to see a nanny in her natural habitat. Could you take pity on an old man and refill his refreshments?”

Emma straight-up laughs. “You and I both know that I have no idea how that concoction is made. How about a beer?”

“ _¡Újule!_ Art is lost on the youth.”

“I haven’t been a youth in at least ten years.”

“I was a thirty five year old advisor in D.F. when your parents were making you in the backseat of a rusting Buick, Miss Swan. You’re all youth to me.” He finishes his drink with a dramatic flourish. “Do you vote, Miss Swan?”

“I’m not particularly jazzed on politics, but sure.” She shrugs. “I’m a voter, I guess.”

“You _guess_? See Regina, this is what I was talking about earlier. The youth vote is a doomed cause.”

Regina appears in the doorway, clearly dressed for an afternoon in the public eye. She’s wearing those black pants that mean no-nonsense, though they also mean an absolutely flawless display for her absolutely flawless ass. Emma tries very hard not to crane her neck in an effort to see just how great it looks. She also tries very hard not to make her need to see this superior backside evident to said backside’s campaign manager.

“Emma is not a youth, Zazu,” Regina says, using the nickname that most people seem to call him. “The fact that you’re throwing around the term ‘youth’ also means that I want you nowhere near that particular faction.”

“That’s why we hire consultants, Regina. They can use the Twizzler and the Spacebook, whatever the tweens enjoy conversing on these days.” Of course, the bastard is joking, playing the part of the out-of-touch old man. Emma is well aware of the fact that Zazu knows exactly what he is doing when it comes to anyone who wanders even thirty feet within range of a voting booth. Another strategy of his that is awfully effective, and has paid off sweetly for the current mayor.

“Right,” Emma says. “You’re clearly here to talk campaign turkey, so that’s my cue to go to work. I’ve got a class in a half hour that won’t exactly teach itself.”

Zazu gestures towards the empty seat across from him, giving her one of those looks that is incredibly difficult to ignore. “Actually, Miss Swan, do you have five minutes? I could really use your input on something.” He glances over at the mayor and then back at Emma. “It would help Regina greatly, if that’s more convincing for you.”

Regina looks as clueless as Emma, but Emma shrugs, collapses into the chair. “Sure, why not?”

“ _Fantástico_ , that’s the spirit, Miss Swan. Now, before you start groaning, Regina, this _is_ about the gala--”

Regina groans, the rebel. “Zazu, let’s not.”

“No, allow me to finish. I think Miss Swan’s input would be very valuable.”

“Please say this isn’t about what I’m wearing.”

“Of course not, why would we quiz this poor girl about your dress? It’s about your handsome date.”

 _Her what in the fuck now?_ Emma clears her throat, pretending like she isn’t completely thrown by this conversation and the new element of the words ‘handsome’ and ‘date’. “I’m sorry, I’m a little confused. What is this gala we’re talking about?”

There’s something in Regina’s eyes, something that might even be pleading, maybe. “It’s not hugely important, Emma--”

Zazu rolls his eyes, playing with the large gold ring on his finger. “Nonsense, Regina. It’s extremely important, and you know that. The Kennedy Dinner, the gala that announces campaigns and solidifies darling liberal politicians like a certain mayor as the party’s new favorites. Regina needs to look her absolute best, embodying all of our favorite qualities and values, and there it is, easy as that.”

Emma blinks. “There it is as in what is it?”

“Her reelection. And then a senatorial race in the coming years, now that everyone’s begging for it. I’m not saying they’re saving her a spot, but I’m not saying they’re _not_ , either.”

“But she’s got another year and a half, right?”

Zazu gives her a look. “Politicians, Miss Swan, are always campaigning. Consider this gala the coming out ball that starts off the debutante season. But instead of coming out as eligible young ladies, everyone’s coming out as eligible for royally mucking up our government.”

_Or they could be coming out in a few other choice ways, lesbihonest._

Regina attempts yet another save, once again making deliberate eye contact with Emma. “I really don’t think she needs to be dragged into this, Zazu.”

“Yes, she does,” he says, and winks at Emma. “You’re a hot-blooded young woman with a decent eye. How alluring is this Robin character?”

Emma has to take a second to swallow a significant amount of bile. “Uh, yeah, that’s not...that’s not my expertise.”

“If you saw a photograph of him in a smart tux, the mayor of Brooke City on his arm, would you be more inclined to vote for her?”

“I’m sorry, when is she supposed to be on his arm?”

“At the gala, darling. Regina may keep her love life a secret from most people, but this is the kind of event where we’ll need her to turn up with an impressive plus one. I’m just lucky she was already dating someone attractive, or else we’d have to do an entirely different kind of damage control.”

Emma isn’t sure why her insides seem to be threatening release from her body, or actually, she’s completely and totally sure of why they’re rebelling. Why wouldn’t they be rebelling? She unclenches her jaw, trying not to grind her teeth. “I...I don’t have an opinion on that.”

Regina has turned bright red at this point, in case it’s worth noting. Emma is not able to note much more than this fact and the fact that she wants to punch a scale model of Robin until its head is freed from its torso.

“You can be candid, Miss Swan.” Zazu leans forward, examining her with those unreadable eyes. “Do you think they would be appealing to the media?”

“I don’t think we should assume that anyone will be engaging with anyone else--” Regina starts, only to be silenced once again by Zazu.

“Regina, enough. Miss Swan is exactly the demographic that responds to this situation.”

“Yeah, but I’m not.” Emma gets to her feet, looking directly at Regina as she says: “I’m gay, so Robin is as appealing to me as a fucking dent in a door. But I’m sure everyone will see the pictures and think they make the perfect couple. Our very own fucking Prince William and a much tanner Kate. Bring on the wedding and the babies and the vice presidency.”

Emma leaves. She forgets to pack her water bottle, or her sneakers, and ends up teaching a class in her socks. Just like she’d known this morning, a subpar day.

 

 

 

 

By the afternoon, she’s accrued nine missed calls from Regina. She takes a very deep breath before calling her back, as if that could even begin to help the situation. Regina doesn’t say hello when she picks up. There’s a sigh from her end, and then the words Emma knew were going to happen eventually.

“I’m so sorry, Emma.”

Emma shrugs, not that Regina can see it, not that she actually believes in that shrug. “Why? You don’t need to be sorry. I honestly have no idea why I thought even for a goddamned second that we could go to that together. Just the mayor and her nanny, strolling into some big important dinner, like hey, what’s up, how’s your cool heterosexual political thing, we’re about to gay it the fuck up and also I’m her nanny, just to make that super clear. Hide your kids, hide your wife, but make sure to livetweet this bitch.”

“Emma.” And fuck how soft her voice is, how it’s the same kind of gentle it is sometimes when Regina strokes her face, when she kisses her on her cheek and her jaw and her forehead before she even reaches her lips.

“No, it’s cool. I mean, it’s really cool, but were you going to tell me that you had this important gala thing and you’d be attending with Robin? I didn’t know you were still talking to him, honestly.”

“I’m not.”

“Because I’m cool with it. We don’t belong to each other, there’s no rules here. I mean, you’ve made it clear we’re not even dating, so who gives a fuck if we just casually distribute our love everywhere, like some big happy socialist love farm and--”

A harder tone this time. “Emma, seriously. Please stop. You can rant about this, and I don’t...I don’t blame you. But it won’t explain what actually happened, and unless you listen to me, you’re not going to understand.”

“What happened is you’re going to a dinner with your former dude, except you have to pretend he is your current dude.” Emma stops herself from biting a hole in her own lip. “No big deal, it’s a very basic concept.”

“It wasn’t my idea. Zazu organized the whole thing, as he is wont to do. I haven’t even spoken to Robin yet, not since Henry’s recital, so I have no idea how that’s going to go. I don’t attend dinners with people I’m actually involved with, trust me when I say that it’s never worked out that way. It’s about the image, that’s all. And I would have absolutely told you about the gala, probably today or tomorrow after I’d discussed it with Zazu. I wanted to invite you, actually.”

“What, as the understudy?”

“You can bring whoever you want. You’re allowed a plus one.”

“Oh, so I can bring a fake jealousy blanket, too? What a party.”

A concentrated sigh from the other end of the line. “I doubt you care right now, but I want you to be there.”

“ _I_ don’t know if I want to be there. I’m not usually a jealous bitch, but there’s something about the guy that makes me want to commit a felony. There’s your front page story, ‘nanny pummels dude into dance floor, sets his hair on fire.’ Just thinking about it kinda makes my stuff tingle. No, I will not be there.”

A long pause from the other end. 

“There’s unlimited shrimp cocktails.”

“Fine, I will be there. But I will look better than him and I will dance better than him.”

“I’m sure you will.” There’s another sigh from Regina, and then a pause. “Again...I’m sorry for all this. It’s just how it works.”

“It’s fine, Regina. I’ll figure it out.”

 

 

 

 

Emma doesn’t need to figure it out, though. Even though the thought of J.Crew McPrepster showing back up in their life makes every muscle in her body flex involuntarily, she knows why he has to be there. She knows why it would be ridiculous for Regina to show up to something like this alone. She knows why it would be even more ridiculous for Regina to show up with another woman, particularly when that other woman is her nanny. She knows that it would have to be a handsome successful white man with a non-threatening beard and a form-fitting tux.

Because she knows her now. She does, and she can’t unlearn Regina. She can never unlearn Regina anymore than she can unlearn how to take breaths before going underwater, how to keep the muscle of her heart pumping and straining and living. The kind of things you can’t even make yourself forget -- that’s how Emma is with Regina.

 

 

 

 

(And later, these are the moments Emma thinks of when she thinks about the slow unraveling and the reveals and the flickers beneath the surface and other fancy imagery she runs out of before she ever runs out of reasons she fell for her:

Regina teaching Emma how to pronounce the Spanish words on a can of black beans, and Emma chuckling, saying something about how even Regina probably was saying them wrong, how did they know Regina wasn’t pronouncing them incorrectly and totally cramping Emma’s style?

“Don’t,” Regina had said, and looked very serious, halting Emma’s teasing laughter.

“Don’t what?”

And then Regina had turned red, shaken her head. “Never mind,” she’d said, and this was one of the moments of learning Regina. Later, Emma would find out that Regina’s parents hadn’t taught her Spanish -- her nanny had. Her father, a man who changed his surname from Melendez to Mills before his first senatorial race, was angry the first time she started talking back to him in his language. 

Henry has been bilingual since he first started to speak. Cora doesn’t even balk when her daughter sometimes refuses to respond to her in English. Emma notices all of these things. She’s not as obtuse as they think she is, at least not most of the time.

Or, Regina only blinking when Emma drops words like lesbian and bisexual and whatever the hell you want. Regina never reacting when Emma talks about gay bars and asks Regina if she thinks such and such a place is worthwhile. Regina never naming names. Regina never talking about her past unless it comes up in some sideways backwards way.

“Remember how you said I never asked?” Emma says, and Regina rolls her eyes.

“Yes, and now you never stop asking. I’m not going out to some lesbian bar with some horrific name like ‘The Pussycat Lounge’, it’s not happening.”

“Is that because the place is horrible or...is it because it’s not your _scene_?” Emma fishes, except she fishes with a worm on a hook in pursuit of great white sharks.

Regina knows what she wants to hear, and she smiles that damn smile, blinks innocently. 

“I don’t go to bars with references to genitalia in their names,” she says, and then walks into the other room because this is how Regina sometimes ends conversations, on her own terms.

Or, Emma finally taking off all her clothes in front of Regina, and the way Regina had bent so carefully over her, how she’d taken her time in examining Emma’s collarbone, her navel, the lines of her narrow hips. And how Regina had taken off all her clothes in turn, and they’d splayed out in bed next to each other, being so quiet, so slow, looking at freckles and dents and tiny creases. Regina sniffing suddenly, turning her head away and trying to laugh. Emma seeing the tears. Emma learning Regina, learning not to ask.

All of these things are the reason why at the end of the day, she’d probably go to war for this woman. Emma Swan, lately a nanny and nominal bodyguard, previously bad news with a capital b, would drop everything for a chance to glance Regina through a foggy window.

You can’t unlearn that.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“God _damn_ is that ever a tuxedo,” Ruby practically yells, fanning herself in the most dramatic manner possible. “Someone get me a hair dryer, I need to apply it to my panties.”

Emma shoves her suddenly terrible choice for a date tonight into the Bug. “Hey, _wow_ , remember how I really explicitly said not to treat this dinner as a night out at a club?”

“And that’s why I’m actually wearing underwear for once. Sheesh, Emma, it’s like you think I’m this totally irresponsible floozy when in fact I am a totally responsible floozy.” She once again gives Emma’s outfit an approving nod. “I know I already said it, but you look hot as fuck, dude. I may not be god’s gift to heterosexuality, but consider this bitch turned.”

“Yeah, and how about we keep our inappropriate remarks to a minimum? If you’re good, I’ll let you have a...um...a White House intern, or something.”

“Just a quick and totally serious question,” and at this, Ruby holds a finger up in the air and screws her face into something that just barely passes for totally serious. “Are we going to make that evil Robin dude super jealous and torment his very soul with our hotness, or are we going to mope in defeat like a couple of sad skanks?”

“Did you pregame this?”

“Don’t change the subject, subject-changey-pants. I had, like, a _shot,_ , so don’t freak out.”

“A shot of what?”

“A shot of blueberry vodka in a cup of cherry rum in a glass of that vodka with the little gold pieces in it. I don’t know, it’s like 30 calories or something.”

Emma contemplates just how absolutely doomed she is tonight. After factoring in the alcohol consumed by Ruby, multiplied by Ruby not exactly being the most subtle creature on the earth, divided by how Emma is probably going to fail utterly at being smooth and polite and whatever, and it’s going to be a totally ridiculous event, at the very minimum.

The gala is being held in the Brooke City Art Museum, and Ruby starts oohing and aahing as they’re pulling up, loudly narrating the appearance of a red carpet and valets and _oh my fuck, Emma Emma Emma, the paparazzi are here we are gonna get our picture taken oh my fuck oh my fuck_.

None of her previous fears are anything compared to the feelings following her handing the keys to the Bug to a valet -- a very judgmental valet who gives both her and the car a skeptical one over -- offering Ruby her arm, and walking up the red carpeted steps and into the museum.

“Emma Swan,” she says to the very fancy model-esque man with the guestlist. “And guest,” she adds, nodding at Ruby.

“I’m her guest,” Ruby says, leaning forward. “But I’m not her _guest_ , you feel me? Do you work out? What does your nametag say? Keith? Do you work out, Keith? You look like you work out.”

Keith stares between the two of them and then checks Emma’s name off the list. “Enjoy your evening, ladies. Your complimentary gift bags are next to the banquet table.”

Emma has to shove Ruby inside, all while Ruby is stage whispering, “FIND ME KEITH.”

“Did he say something about gift bags--” Emma starts, but Ruby has halted in place, grabbing Emma’s wrist.

“Emma,” she says, and it doesn’t take long for Emma to see where she’s staring. “She looks _unreal_.”

And yeah, she does. Regina Mills, mayor of Brooke City, really does look unreal, like something that isn’t likely to appear on this planet any time soon. Regina hadn’t been talking about the gala this week, not since that phone conversation. Not about her dress, not about her hair, not about the fact that she and Emma would not be able to arrive together. So Emma didn’t know that she’d be wearing that particular black dress, her hair done up just so, her lips the color of wine. Emma didn’t know that she’d see her and not be able to think of anything else.

Regina’s on the other side of the room and hasn’t seen them come in, but Robin’s nowhere in sight and neither is Zazu, and god, Emma just wants to march up to her and kiss her. She wants to grab her by the waist and dip her into some romantic dip thing and kiss her right there, Regina’s toe in the air. But Ruby’s grabbing her elbow and steering her towards the tables, seeming suddenly very determined.

“Come on horndog,” she mutters. “Let’s find our seats and then think about all the ways we can keep our hands in our lap, okay?”

“Ruby, I’m just--”

“So help me god, I will go and open-mouth kiss with Keith. I will do it.”

 

 

 

 

And that’s how the second longest night of Emma Swan’s life begins.

 

 

 

 


	17. in which a few choice matters come to light

 

 

 

 

It is the general rule of Emma Swan’s life that anything that can go wrong _will_ go wrong. So she really shouldn’t be surprised when Ruby, who by this point has already downed two champagne flutes from two separate waiters who both walked briskly in the other direction following Ruby’s suggestive winking, points excitedly at the nearest table.

“They put us at the same table as Regina,” Ruby says, and then plants herself at her assigned seat. Emma is still staring over her shoulder at where Regina is talking to a group of other important looking people, Robin now at her side with his stupid beard and his stupid suit and his stupid dumb smile.

Ruby glances in the direction of Emma’s furtive stares. “Who are you looking at with your murder gaze?”

Emma rolls her eyes, attempts to be very interested in her surprisingly-not-sneakers fancy shoes. “No one.”

Ruby’s jaw drops when she realizes who it is Emma is attempting to kill with her eyes. “What do you mean, _no one_? That is only your arch nemesis.” She puts on a very affected accent. “At the end of days, ye and he shall battle to the death, all oiled down and bare torsos and rippling sensual muscles and--”

“I feel like I should go say hello,” Emma tries, only to be yanked down into a chair by Ruby.

“By say hello, I know you actually mean cut off Robin’s hands and use his blood to write ‘NO GO ZONE’ on Regina’s cleavage, so I’m going to insist you stay the fuck in your seat.”

“I’m not going to cut off his hands,” Emma corrects, straining against Ruby’s unexpectedly strong grip. “But, like, what does he _really_ need his thumb for, you know? He wouldn’t miss a finger or two.”

“What’s both adorable and terrifying is that I know you’re only sort of kidding.” Ruby slides an empty wine glass in Emma’s direction. “Flag down a waiter so you can drown these urges in free booze.”

“I’m getting life advice from someone who once stole a grilled cheese from a stranger’s child.”

“He knows what he did.”

“If it isn’t my favorite nanny,” comes an entirely different voice, and Emma looks up to see Zazu and a very distinguished lady on his arm. He takes his seat beside her in an outfit that makes him look far more intelligent than anyone else in the room. Emma didn’t know a tuxedo could do that. “And look at you, always the element of the unexpected. You have the legs for a dress, but you’re dazzling us in an interpretation of menswear. Very avant-garde. Very alternative youth vote.”

Emma can’t tell whether this is a thinly veiled insult, or Zazu is genuinely into the idea of his candidate’s nanny showing up in a tux. She doesn’t have time to consider, though, because Ruby has now shoved her face into Emma’s personal space with a very conspiratorial grin. 

“Before you start freaking out about how terrible this night is gonna be, I want you to know that I have a plan.”

“A plan for what?”

“A plan to scare your nemesis off for good, and also win you the hearts and minds of the people.”

“What people?”

Ruby gestures vaguely around the room. “I don’t know, these rich old white people? The people are less important. The scaring off of your greatest enemy is the grand shebang, the whole hooplah.”

“You’re making up words.”

“These are real words. Get a dictionary, Swan. The lexicon of 1930s carnies is real, and it is still relevant.” Ruby shakes her head as if Emma is a total moron, a gesture Emma realizes she gets a lot from Ruby, in spite of the givens. “Anyway, you’ll love it. This plan is flawless.”

“Does it involve anything illegal?”

Ruby doesn’t have to think too hard about that. “Yes, but--”

“Then it has flaws.”

Ruby narrows her eyes. “Who stole your soul, Emma Swan? Who took away the lightning that was once your killer instincts for disobeying the law?”

“I don’t know, a room full of lawmakers smattered with a full security team? Also, if there’s anywhere on the planet where I should behave myself, I think it is this gala, tonight, at this exact table.”

“Boo, you funsuck. Where is your faith? This plan has steps, Emma. _Steps_. Phases, even. I even wrote them down and made important labels so there’s no confusion.” Ruby extracts -- from her bra, Emma might add -- a piece of paper with lots of pink and purple marker scribbles. There are stickers involved.

“Please tell me that’s a gift from a small child.”

“Please tell me you’re ready to crush Robin like a full beer can between my quivering thighs.”

“Wait, did you draw a vagina on--”

 

 

 

 

**PHASE ONE: AGGRESSION**

Robin’s walking towards the table now, Regina not far behind. Emma finally makes eye contact with Regina and fuck, it hits her somewhere below the belt just as it squeezes her heart. Both are simultaneously pleasant and unpleasant sensations. 

“Emma, it’s good to see you.” Robin looks slightly confused. “Is Henry here?” 

“Not unless he hitchhiked." 

“Oh, I just...well, I thought if you were here, that would mean you were keeping tabs on him.” 

Ruby must choose this as the point at which she goes completely batshit, because she has appeared at Emma’s side, pointing a finger at Robin. 

“What’s that supposed to mean, _buddy_? You think a woman can’t exist without having to watch a child? You think we all belong in kitchens making milk and raising your sorry offspring? You ever thought about childbirth? You ever tried to push a basketball out your--” 

“ _Ruby._ ” 

Ruby gives Robin, who is the definition of stunned, a oneover before snorting. “That’s what I thought, buckaroo.” 

“Uh, Robin. This is my friend Ruby.” 

Robin hesitates before extending his hand, as if he’s afraid Ruby will bite it off. “Charmed, I’m sure.” 

“Sure you are but what am I?” Ruby pumps his hand a little too hard, as if asserting dominance. 

Robin turns his attention to Emma, a horror movie survivor seeking shelter. “So Emma, if you’re not watching Henry, you must have the night off. What brought you to an event like this?” 

Ruby’s out of her seat again. “You think we don’t belong here? You think we’re some kind of lowly commoner trash? I’ve peed in a nightclub just like everybody else--” 

“She’s an improvisational actor,” Emma says quickly, shoving Ruby back into her chair. “She has an important part next week, and she’s practicing.” 

“Oh,” Robin says, staring between the two of them. “I was almost in an improv troop at Dartmouth.” 

“Cool.” 

“It was.” 

“Very.” 

Regina is deep in conversation with Zazu and another important-looking political person, luckily missing out on this absolutely horrible situation. Ruby takes a very deep breath as Emma sits down next to her, and then shoots Emma a terrifying smile. 

“Bitch, it’s working!” Ruby hisses, and Emma has never disagreed with anything more in her life. 

****

 

 

 

 

**PHASE TWO: FLIRTATION**

Wine is brought around, and the first course, a fancy soup that Emma starts to eat with her pinky up before realizing no one else is doing it. Regina is the one who introduces Emma to the unfamiliar faces at the table, and they keep holding each other’s eyes, only for Regina to break first, glancing over at Robin or whoever she’s talking to. Emma has the distraction of keeping Ruby in her seat, at least for now. Ruby leans in closer to Robin, seated across from her, batting her eyelashes.

“Robin, your muscles are huge.”

Robin sputters into his soup. “Sorry?”

“Do you lift? You look like you’re a serious lifter.”

“I...I do sometimes.”

“Are you a boating man?”

Robin continues to look increasingly uncomfortable. “I have a sailboat, yes.”

“I thought so. You know, I have _always_ wanted to get out on the ocean. Something about that rhythmic rocking motion, right?” Ruby makes awkward pelvic thrusts in her chair, biting down on her bottom lip and making intense eye contact with Robin. “It seems so... _sensual_.”

Robin chokes on his soup. Regina looks over from her conversation, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Emma for an explanation. Emma can only shrug. At this point, Ruby is way beyond controlling.

 

 

 

 

**PHASE THREE: SLOW UNRAVELING**

“Regina says Emma has really impressive arms.”

Luckily, Regina has left the table by the time Ruby gets on to this line of the conversation. Most of the table is dancing or mingling before the speeches begin. Regina is halfway across the room, talking to Zazu. Robin has been pinned to the table, where he looks slightly concerned.

“That’s nice of her, I suppose.”

“Has Regina ever complimented you on your arms, Robin?”

“I don’t think so.” Robin is now glancing around the room desperately, as if hoping that anything, anyone, will save him from this situation. “You know, I think I should probably go and see if--”

“Has Regina ever complimented you on _anything_ , Robin?”

“Do you want more shrimp cocktail? I’m going to go ask the waiter for more shrimp cocktail.”

“Wow, it seems pretty telling that Regina has never even complimented you. Do you guys, like, _kiss_ or anything?”

“ _Ruby_ ,” Emma hisses, and gives her a swift kick in the leg. Except she misses, and Robin winces and doubles over in his chair. The remaining occupants of the table all glance over in time to see Robin with his hand between his legs and his face blue.

Ruby raises an eyebrow and talks out the very exaggerated side of her mouth. “You know, I wasn’t going to resort to physical violence, but you may be onto something.”

 

 

 

 

**PHASE FOUR: TOTAL ANNIHILATION**

“Why is your date dancing with my date?”

“Ten bucks says they’re making out by the end of the night.”

“Oh, please.” Regina rolls her eyes, arms folded across her chest. The gesture still isn’t enough to hide that incredible dress and the way it looks on her incredible everything else, and Emma isn’t sober enough to remember to keep her eyes off the mayor.

“What? I’ll make sure they’re subtle about it. Shove them in a broom closet or something, the paparazzi will never know that your date went rogue.”

“Aw, darn,” Emma groans as Robin finally manages to escape Ruby’s grips and sulks off to the other side of the ballroom, Ruby blowing him a dramatic kiss.

“Is your friend, uh...”

“Stealing food? Oh, absolutely.” They both glance in Ruby’s direction in time to see her slide the contents of an entire shrimp cocktail into her purse. “But in all fairness, I saw Representative Davis put a cannoli in his pocket a few minutes ago.”

“No, I mean, is she alright? She seems a tad...unhinged.”

“ _Oh_ , her erratic behavior, right. No, Ruby’s intention this evening was to drive Robin absolutely batshit, which she seems to have accomplished.”

“He’ll be hiding behind that waiter for at least ten minutes, you’re right.” 

“So, Mayor Mills, I noticed you haven’t danced yet.”

Regina snorts, her arms folded at her chest. She gives Emma a look, but Emma nudges her with her elbow in as subtle a way as she can, making Regina blush.

“These aren’t the sort of places where I like to dance.”

Emma grins. “You’d prefer a dive bar with a karaoke contest?”

“I prefer privacy.”

“You know, I think I saw the coat room attendant go on her break.”

“Good for her.”

“And even though there’s not much room -- I mean, it’s more of a closet than anything -- there’s probably space enough for dancing.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but that smile, _that smile_ , Emma knows all too well.

 

 

 

 

“This is super ironic, right?” Emma gets out in between making her way down Regina’s neck. “Because we’re _in_ the closet, doing this and--”

Regina shuts Emma up with a very strategic kiss, and then hikes up her own dress, pulling Emma’s hands onto her thighs. Emma doesn’t need an invitation to get lost in that particular situation. No matter the size of this coatroom, Emma knows exactly how much trouble she can get up to, and hell, it’s a lot. 

Of course, that’s when the door opens.

“Good evening, ladies.”

Emma freezes, mouth still attached to Regina’s and her hands in a less than public place. Regina sputters, attempting to straighten out her dress despite Emma’s fingers still being very much under it.

“Zazu,” Regina croaks, and the older man smiles as if this is all par for the course, as if he fully expected to open this closet door and see his candidate engaged in sexual conduct with her nanny. As if he had opened this closet door because it was labeled ‘The Room For Finding Mayors And Nannies Doing It’ and it is something he views on a regular basis, so much that it has become as banal to him as a toaster or a crosswalk. He closes the door behind him, so it is now the three of them in a very small space, two of them much closer than most humans should be. The lack of surprise in Zazu’s crinkled eyes is more unsettling than anything Emma could imagine, and she audibly swallows saliva that is definitely not just her own, attempts to disengage her hands in as subtle a way as possible. 

“I was hoping to speak with the both of you tonight,” Zazu says, looking cheerfully between the two of them. “How convenient that we all ran into each other...right...here.”

Zazu is now looking down at where Emma is very slowly wiping her hands on her tuxedo pants. Regina has her eyes squeezed shut, as if the very act of not seeing any of this will erase it from actually happening. 

“And I’m very sorry to interrupt, Regina.” Zazu continues to look as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “I know how seriously you take your meetings and I’d hate to have gotten in the middle of a point being made.”

“That’s...that’s fine,” Regina says, blinking a few times and assuming a professional smile. “What did you want to talk about, Zazu?”

“I think the campaign needs a new angle. I’ve thought about it for a while, actually, ever since I realized you two were involved. Now, now, Regina. Don’t look like I’ve just smacked you in the face. I’m an intelligent man. I’ve been prolific in my life, I’ve known more than a few women in the biblical sense and I know what that looks like. Yes, Emma, you’re very unsubtle. No, Regina, you’re just as bad as she is, so don’t try and defend yourself. I was hoping to confront this with that earlier conversation about Robin, but neither one of you took the bait, and now here I am, following you into coatrooms.”

Regina is now blinking even more. “I’m sorry, but...you _knew_? And you said nothing?”

“You know me, darling. An old man like me likes a strategy under his arm at all times, like a worn newspaper. I didn’t have one when I first saw her stare at your _culo_ like she knew it intimately, but now I do.” 

Emma doesn’t know what to say, and apparently neither does Regina, because the two of them are still silently gaping at Zazu, his smile very much intact.

“You’re going to tell everyone about this. You’re going to come very proudly out of the closet -- well, not _this_ closet, you should probably leave one at a time to get back to the dining room, but you know what I mean. Emma, you’ll need a new job. I’ve got a fantastic stylist, I’ve got a PR person who specializes in these kinds of matters, you’re going to work with them both. Regina, you’re going to lose that ice queen exterior and all those accusations of floppy emasculated boyfriends in one fell swoop. Since you spent your twenties hating me for not letting you take your girlfriends out in public, I’ll make it up to you now. Everyone wins.”

Regina clears her throat, and Emma can see her tongue working the inside of her mouth, a classic sign of frustration and concentration and homicidal thoughts from the Regina front.

“So you weren’t going to discuss this with us first.”

“What’s to discuss, darling? It’s not like we need to get the train rolling. From what I can see of Miss Swan’s hands, it’s very much out of the station. The media already suspects--”

“It does _not_.”

“Read a blog, Regina. You want the LGBT vote? There it is. You want the youth vote? Hurrah, they love the gays. You want the young liberals and the old liberals and the mothers who watch The Ellen Show? We’re there, they’re loving it. The horny teenage boys, too, at least the ones who are 18 and registered to vote.” Zazu places a hand on each other their shoulders, a very strange gesture in the light of the moment. “Now, did I want to have this conversation in a coat room that smells like rutting mammals? No, not particularly. But time waits for no campaign, as you know. I’ll leave you ladies to it. We can talk further in the morning, Regina.”

And just like that, the old bastard smiles triumphantly, and closes the door behind him.

Emma wipes her mouth. “What the _fuck_ just happened?” 

She is answered with Regina looking positively exasperated, and then terrified, and then laughing hysterically into Emma’s shoulder.

“We should go back before the speeches start.”

 

 

 

 

“Our guest speaker needs no introduction. The youngest mayor in Brooke City history, not to mention its first female mayor, she’s the champion of economic reform and community relief programs. We’re proud to have her here tonight, so let’s welcome Regina Mills.”

A generous round of applause, complimented by Ruby nearly falling out of her seat while trying to footsy Robin, who is shuffling his chair across the ballroom out of sheer terror.

Not that Emma has noticed this fiasco, because Regina’s up there looking radiant, all business and dominance and hey, Swan’s the first to admit that she’s always had a thing for authority figures, even when she already knows their weaknesses.

“Thank you,” Regina says, getting out the glasses that Emma once asked her to wear just for a librarian dress-up. It only took about five minutes before Regina had to remove them due to kiss obstacles and Emma deciding she didn’t have a librarian thing after all, but if Regina ever wanted to try a sexy teacher situation, _well_. Different story. “I’m honored to be here and--”

There’s a beep. To Emma’s right, Zazu is looking down at his phone, and even in the dark, Emma can see that his expression has clearly changed, though to what is Zazu’s continually hazy business. Across the ballroom, there’s another beep, and another, until a few dozen vibrations and beeps and various noises are setting off, and any number of politicians are glancing at their own devices.

“Miss Swan,” Zazu purrs, “Please prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

Without warning, every pair of eyes in the ballroom is looking in Emma’s direction, then swinging back up to Regina in quick succession.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Ruby hisses, and hands Emma her phone. “You’re viral, dude.”

Ruby clicks through to an image of Emma leaving the closet, Regina just behind her with a hand around Emma’s waist. There is zero question of what is going on there.

Emma’s not sure how to react. On one hand, there’s a tight little fist of panic in her chest that makes her want to run directly out of this building and not stop until she’s back to the confines of the guest bedroom. At the same time, Regina’s up there still going at her speech with only a slight twitch of confusion at what she sees, keeping up that confident smile like a champ. Emma can’t hear what she’s saying, can’t _process_ it right now.

“Zazu,” Emma whispers, looking back at him for guidance. And here’s the fucking clinker, right? The man is smiling. Not a grin, necessarily, but that very specific Zazu smile that occasionally makes Emma wonder whose team he is playing for, anyway.

“Just smile, darling. Smile and stay calm.”

Emma shoots him a look. “Fucking easy for you to say.”

“Darling, everything will be easier for me to say from now on. For example, wipe your face. I think you’ve still got a bit of the mayor in the corner of your mouth.”

 

 

 

 


	18. in which the cat is out of the bag

 

 

 

 

“Without question, that was the most _humiliating_ experience of my life.”

Three hours later, and Regina is pacing the living room in her silk dressing robe, glaring daggers at Zazu with each pass. Zazu is still in his suit, looking just as crisp as he did six hours prior, the impossible bastard. Emma is perched on the edge of the couch, slumped in sweats and a hoodie, pretending that she didn’t try to solve the evening’s problems with a closing round of shots.

“Regina, darling--”

“No, don’t you darling me. You are supposed to _prevent_ these situations, not enable them. What exactly am I paying you for if you’re going to gleefully indulge in the exploitation of my personal life?”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem when I spelled out the plan in the coatroom.”

“I didn’t think that plan involved publishing a photo of Emma and I doing, doing...you know what we were doing.”

“I had nothing to do with that photo--”

“Oh, bullshit. An intern happens to be there and stupid enough to post it to their Twitter account? That had your fucking name all over it, Zazu.”

“Regina, I am hardly the conniving mastermind you think I am.”

“I know _exactly_ what kind of conniving mastermind you are. You’re the conniving mastermind that got me into office.”

“And will keep you in that office, and then get you into an even nicer office, if you’ll just let me.”

“That isn’t what this isn’t about.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, but I know I can’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“Regina, I did not hire anyone to take that photograph. I swear on your father’s name.”

Regina collapses into the nearest chair, and suddenly there’s defeat all over her face, exhaustion in her eyes. She glances up at Zazu, a much younger Regina asking her mentor for help.

“Zazu, what do I do?”

“Darling, you own the truth. Give them what you want to give them, but know there is nothing wrong with them knowing about your life right now. As I said, it’s very profitable.”

“Emma,” and Regina’s looking at Emma for the first time since the start of all her angry pacing. “Emma, what do you want to do?”

“Me?” Of course she can’t fucking think of what she wants to do, mostly because she didn’t think she had much of a say in the whole doing of the things. So she’s honest, or at least as honest as she can be. “I don’t want to fuck up your life. That’s what I want to do. I want to not ruin your political career and all that.”

Zazu is smiling that smile again. “Miss Swan, you are going to be the best thing that ever happened to her political career. I guarantee it.”

 

 

 

 

And it isn’t long before Zazu goes home and Regina makes a silent retreat and Emma sits on the couch for a while, some old forgotten ache resurfacing and reminding her of the times when she’d make her own exit, telling herself that she wasn’t in a position to care. But she does care, and she might _more than care_ , and she isn’t going to ignore that. So she does what she knew she’d do anything, and she goes upstairs to Regina’s door.

Emma pauses before knocking. There’s a very painful little instance of wondering if she’d be an _annoyance_ , since she’s sort of kind of maybe part of the problem. But then she thinks about the way Regina had clenched her fingers around Emma’s hand earlier that night, the way she’d looked at Emma when there were angry little tears in her eyes, and Emma knocks anyway.

There’s a soft noise from the other side of the door, and then it’s Regina, standing there in the dark.

“Hey,” Emma says. “I just wanted to check in.”

“Oh,” Regina says, her expression unreadable. “Can you do me a favor, actually?”

“Sure.”

“Can you come in?”

Emma nods, lets herself be pulled inside, the door shutting quietly behind her.

“What, uh, can I do?”

Regina’s arms are wrapped around her shoulders as if she’s cold, as if she’s afraid and unsure. Emma has never seen her this way before.

“Could you spoon me?”

“Like, me being a big spoon?”

“I just...I just want to be held, if that’s okay?

“Right. Spoon you, no forking. Can do.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but there’s a bit of a smile there, just for a moment. 

And when Emma pulls her in, presses her nose against the space between Regina’s shoulder and spine, she can feel Regina relax against her. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Emma whispers, and Regina shifts back so there’s nothing between them anymore.

“Yes,” Regina says, and pulls Emma’s arm over her waist, lacing their fingers together.

 

 

 

 

It’s the first time Emma has actually woken up in Regina’s bed since all of this started. Regina’s still asleep, her position shifted since last night, an arm now flung over Emma, her head on Emma’s shoulder. Emma considers moving, but then remembers Regina pre-caffeine on select horrifying mornings, and decides against it.

So Emma lies completely still for a good half hour, staring at the ceiling. 

“I think your ceiling is nicer than mine,” she says, only to hear a grunt and the tightening embrace of the arm around her waist. 

“It’s a ceiling, Emma.” Regina lifts her head, all sleepy eyes and slightly tousled hair and crooked smile and _fuck_ , that does something to Emma’s biology. 

“Well, I know for a fact your bed is nicer than mine.”

Regina tightens her grip on Emma’s waist. “Is that because we’re both in it?”

Emma snorts. “I’m not falling for your sweet talkin’ ways, Mayor Mills. That’s some Grade A flirtation and you know it.”

“I’m not allowed to flirt with you?”

“Not before 9 AM. Strict rules to keep my inner clock accurate. If I get turned on before breakfast I am very confused about everything for at least a week.”

Regina props herself up on her elbow, raising an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that you get turned on at all hours. Or at least that is what you would have me believe with those looks.”

“I definitely don’t know what looks you’re talking about.”

“Right, because you’ve never ogled my ass in between your pancakes.”

“When was the last time your ass was in between pancakes?”

Regina rolls her eyes, but Emma leans in, nose to nose.

“Regina, I’m serious, I will eat pancakes off your ass with very little encouragement needed. That’s like, a completely serious life goal.”

Regina covers Emma’s face with a hand, pushes her away before she can go in for a kiss. “You’re right, you’re deranged in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

“We should probably get up. The world waits for no one.”

Regina uncharacteristically covers her head with a pillow. “The world can wait this morning.”

“Wow, is this what you’re like before coffee? You’re always properly caffeinated by the time I get to you.”

Regina uncovers just enough pillow to shoot Emma a look. “Would _you_ like to check the Internet, or should I?”

“Oh. _Oh._ ” Emma glances around the room for a laptop or phone, but decides against it. “You know what? How about today’s rule is no Internet? No phones, no social media, no trending hashtag ‘Lesbiangate2015.”

Regina’s head shoots up. “There’s a _trending hashtag?_ ”

“I’m joking, shh.” Emma kisses Regina’s cheek, pulls her back down into bed. “Let’s make like cutlery and spoon.”

“Horrible,” Regina mutters under her breath, but she manages to shimmy out of Emma’s grip. “You’re right, though. None of this is going to wait for me. We might as well get up and face it.”

Emma feels only a little bit of shame that she loves watching Regina pulling on her dressing gown, running her fingers through her hair. Even in Regina’s current state of fluster, it’s a sight to behold.

“Do you, uh...you want me to leave first?”

Regina gives her a look. “It’s not a closet, Miss Swan.”

“Right, but it’s your bedroom.”

There’s a moment, Regina leaning against her closet door, Emma propped up on her elbows in bed and so aware that it’s morning and she’s here and it’s normal, it’s this comfortable domestic thing. Regina sighs, rubs at her eyes like she already has a headache. “We’re not going to be able to hide this anymore, are we?”

Emma tests the air, knowing that she’d rather step around it than right into it. “Are you...how do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know how to say this, actually, but,” Regina bites her bottom lip, Emma feels her heart sinking ten feet below the basement level of this house. “I actually feel fine. I thought this would be the worst feeling in the world, having that privacy ripped away, but...I don’t feel bad.”

And then Emma’s heart does something else entirely, more akin to a roller coaster. “Does that mean you feel... _good_?”

“Yes, actually.” Regina pulls on her slippers, her back to Emma. “I do actually feel very good about all of it. I mean, the political backlash and the media circus that we’re going to have to spend the rest of the year dodging, that’s going to be a nightmare. But I liked waking up with you this morning. I liked you being here, and I liked you not leaving, and not having to do what I usually do, which is lie awake long after you’ve gone and think about how I am supernaturally aware of your presence and your absence. I sleep horribly when you go back to your own bed. I barely sleep at all, actually, but last night was the best sleep I’ve had in months.” She turns back to Emma, but her gaze is on the floor, as if she can’t meet Emma’s eye. Emma’s very aware of the pink tinge in Regina’s cheeks. “Last night felt like everything was right, even though the world had just about collapsed a few hours earlier.”

_Shit._

“I get it.”

Regina blinks. “You do?”

“I feel the same way, actually.”

“You do?” Regina looks very un-Regina-like, as Regina very rarely looks so thrown. “Oh, you do.”

“I know we were going to keep feelings out of this and not actually define things, I know that’s something we’ve been sticking to--”

“Emma--”

Regina seems to be out of breath, but Emma doesn’t notice because she’s too busy staring wildly at the ceiling she had earlier declared much nicer than her own. 

“And I know that most of the time I seem like a poor excuse for an adult, since I’m barely adulting and I’ve dyed Henry’s hair green and I treat your fake boyfriend like crap and sometimes I spend hours forgetting what I’m supposed to do because all I can think about is burying myself in your body--”

“Emma.”

“So if this is just more evidence that I’m totally in the wrong or a failure or something like that, I just...I won’t be surprised, I just really feel like I need to say it because sometimes I get dizzy from _not_ saying it and--”

“Emma.”

“What?”

“I’m falling in love with you.”

“Shit.” Emma’s mouth is very dry. “That was my line. You stole my line.”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I was totally building up to that, it was the whole dramatic climax.”

“Emma, I’m serious.”

“I know.” And it all kind of hits her, that Regina just said that and she was going to say it and fuck, _fuck_. “Fuck.”

“Fuck is exactly right.” Regina sits down on the bed next to Emma, runs her hand through her hair as if she’s just exited a wind tunnel. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“I can’t believe you beat me to it.”

“I’m...I’m actually falling in love with you.”

“I know. I’ve been falling for you since you did that fucking little hip shake at karaoke.”

“The karaoke night?”

“You lifted the microphone and tilted your hip to the left, and then to the right. And you closed your eyes when you were singing, partly because you were drunk, partly because shit, I don’t know, you were lost in it for a second. I was a goner at that point. Bang, done. That goddamned little hip swivel.”

Regina laughs, except it sounds like it’s a sob, too, and then there are hands on either side of Emma’s face.

“Can I kiss you?” Regina asks, and Emma just grins and grins and goddamned grins.

 

 

 

 

Not twenty minutes of attempts at quiet making out and stupid happy little smiles and Emma feeling like she’s at least a mile in the sky later, and Regina decides she does need that coffee after all. Henry’s in the other room, watching his Saturday cartoons, and Cora is poised in the kitchen in a Chanel bathrobe, her glasses at the end of her nose. Emma has no idea whether to make eye contact -- she obviously knows -- or to hide in the other room like the misbehaving nanny she is.

Regina glances around the kitchen. “Where’s the newspaper?”

Cora has the most glorious poker face of all time, but Emma catches the quick little flicker of her fingers drumming under the counter. “I don’t think it came today, _querida_.”

Not quick enough for Regina, of course. She narrows her eyes at her mother, and then goes to the recycling bin in the corner of the kitchen. Coming up empty handed, she raises her voice.

“Enrique, did your _abuela_ ask you to take out the garbage this morning?”

There’s a pause as the cartoons from the other room are momentarily muted, and then the sound of a kid biding his time. “I...I don’t remember?” This is followed by the clatter of a spoon in a cereal bowl and feet pounding up the stairs, along with the slamming of the bathroom door.

It only takes Regina a few seconds to turn on her heel and march out to the driveway. Emma takes a deep breath.

“That bad, huh?”

Cora is now drumming her fingers on the countertop, rings flashing. “She is going to have a conniption.” She glances over at Emma, a sly smile. “Well done, by the way. Finally, as they say.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“My daughter is much less mysterious than she thinks she is. And you’re about as transparent as plastic wrap. No offense, darling.”

“None taken.” Emma smiles, but she knows what the telltale ache in her chest means. “I should go talk to the kid. Just make sure she doesn’t break any china or anything.”

Cora’s slight eye roll is nearly identical to her daughter’s.

 

 

 

 

“Hey kid, can I come in?”

Henry looks up from his comics, shrugging. _Shit_ , Emma thinks, unable to read the way he keeps his eyes on the page. _Is that his super involved in what he’s reading expression, or his I can’t believe you betrayed me and slept with my mother how dare you expression?_

“So, what did you and your grandma get up to last night?”

Henry puts down the comic book and gives Emma the ol’ Mills Family Raised Eyebrow. “Are you here to talk about my mom?”

“Uh, what about your mom?”

“Emma, I’m not a baby.” He steps over his action figures to throw himself onto the bed next to her, yanking her down onto it with him. On their backs, facing all the stickers of stars and galaxies and spaceships on his ceiling, he elbows her in the side. “I knew you liked my mom ages ago. And now I know that she likes you back.”

“How do you know that?”

He shimmies around, reaching under his bed for something. When he sets it on her stomach, she’s nearly hit in the face with the headline.

**_CLOSET CASE: MILLS CAUGHT IN LESBIAN LIASON_ **

“Shit.”

“Abuela made me take out the garbage before everyone else was awake. I saw it in there. I saw your pictures first, and then what it said.”

“Kid, this is not how I would have wanted you to find out.”

He smacks her in the arm with the newspaper, his mouth screwed up into a frown. “I’m mad at you.”

“And you’re allowed to be mad at me, that’s okay. I just want you to know that--”

“You did the plan without me!”

“Wait...what plan?”

“The Plan! The secret spy plan where I make mom fall in love with you!”

“You had a plan?”

“It’s all in here.” Henry has now produced a notebook, labeled TOP SECRET DO NOT OPEN MOM OR EMMA BUT EMMA I GUESS SO AS LONG AS I EXPLAIN IT FIRST. “Operation Eagle Mongoose.”

“Which one of us is the mongoose?”

“You are, but it’s not a bad thing. The spy book says to use animal names. It’s more top secret that way.”

“Is this because we watched The Parent Trap that one time?”

“No! I mean,” Henry looked suddenly guilty. “Maybe a little bit, but not that much. It’s a totally different plan.”

“Did it involve you switching places with your twin?”

“No.” He shrugged. “Maybe. I just had to find someone to pretend to be my twin first.”

“And how exactly was that going to entice your mother into falling in love with me?”

“Capers. Hijinks. Stuff like that.”

“Capers and hijinks.” Emma grinned, elbowing him back. “I have to hand it to you, kid. You were not far off.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, next time you have to use my plan.”

“Next time? You got any other mothers you want to hook me up with?”

“Are you going to marry my mom?

“Sheesh, Henrietta. Give a girl some breathing room.”

“Well, if you marry my mom, you have to follow my spy plan. You promise?” Henry holds out a hand between them. Emma grabs it, happier than ever to shake that kid’s hand.

“I promise. You sure you’re okay with all of this?”

“I’d be more okay if I had been the devious spy behind it, but I guess it’s not your fault. You said love creeps up like the flu, right?”

“Just like the flu. Sniffles and all.”

“Gross.”

 

 

 

 


	19. in which there is the all-important makeover montage

 

 

 

 

THREE MONTHS, SIX DAYS, AND TWO HOURS LATER

 

 

 

 

“Nope. It’s not happening.”

“Come on, darling. You really didn’t think you were going to make it through this without the all-important makeover montage, did you?”

“Zazu, I swear to god, if you don’t--”

“I guarantee you that whatever you are wearing now looks ten times better than those worn out orphan rags you wore into the dressing room.”

“Did you just call my clothes ‘worn out orphan rags’? You know I’m an orphan, right?”

“He means well, Emma.”

“Just for that, I’m staying in the dressing room forever. I’m going to make a bed from this clothing, and live in my clothing bed, and you can find someone else to tell you that your butt looks nice, Regina. Zazu, do not expect any postcards.”

“Enough with the theatrics, Swan. Show us your outfit.”

“How come we have to do this now?”

“Because you’ve been photographed in the same ratty tank top and leather jacket for the past week. Luckily for you, darling, this fact was brought to my attention. How your assistant didn’t notify me immediately has made me seriously doubt her appointment, but I will--”

“Yeah, Zazu, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this whole personal assistant thing. You realize my job doesn’t require a personal assistant, right?”

“She isn’t assisting your _job_ , Miss Swan. She is assisting your _life_.”

“Regina’s dude only assists with _her_ job.”

“Because she refused to let him do anything else.”

“Well, I’m refusing.”

“You can’t refuse.”

“She can and I can’t?”

“You have less authority, darling. Now, get out of that dressing room before I forcibly remove you and make _quite_ the scene.”

Picture, if you will:

Emma Swan, emerging from the dressing room with all the excitement and enthusiasm of a sulking child - designer leather jacket, designer ripped jeans, designer shirt with...Swarovski crystals in the shape of a skull. Regina starts to laugh and then immediately covers her mouth. Zazu’s expression reveals nothing.

“I look like Ellen and Portia asked the Sons of Anarchy to be their sperm donor.”

Zazu crosses and uncrosses his legs, lips pursed. “Better than what you were wearing, but not where we need to be.”

Emma snorts. “Where we need to be is about four blocks and three mojitos in another direction. Holding brunch ransom until I pick out a new outfit. A new low for you, Zazu.”

“You can eat when you don’t look like a Dickensian pauper.”

“If I look like a Dickensian pauper, then every lesbian in Brooke City wants a dirty-cheeked rapscallion named Oliver, because this look _works_.”

Regina smiles a little, raising an eyebrow. “Worked,” she corrects. “Past tense.”

Emma winks. “Proof of the product, right here. Regina loves an Artful Dodger or two.”

“That is _not_ what I found attractive about you. And if anything, you looked like a lovable anti-hero with a talking motorcycle, not an orphan child.”

“I looked like Night Rider with a bike?”

“I don’t know...it doesn’t matter. Put on a new outfit, that skull is ridiculous.”

Outfits numbers two and three also seem to find crystals in strange places. Outfit number four features a skinny tie - “What, am I Avril fucking Lavigne?” - and outfit number five involves a white polo, a pink sweater around the shoulders, and lime green shorts with tiny pink whales.

“That’s it. My eyeballs have officially melted out of their sockets. Zazu, I’m holding you personally responsible for how stupid I look right now.”

Regina is laughing so hard that she is doubled over in her chair. Zazu takes a deep breath, and then shrugs. 

“We’re in New England, the constituency is WASPy, and I wanted to see if that look would suit you. Sue me for going out on a limb for the campaign. It’s not my fault that you look like an abomination.”

“I swear to god, Zazu, if I go back in that dressing room and there’s a fucking clown costume waiting for me--”

“You know what? You are clearly far too stubborn for this. I’m going to give you a clothing allowance. You pick them out, send them to me for approval, and then you can wear whatever you want. As long as you don’t wear it twice in a row, and darling, I _will_ find out.”

“An allowance? What, do I have to do all my chores first?”

“It’s a business term, Miss Swan. Consider it a huge favor.”

Emma sighs and then kicks off the horrifically bright boating shoes. “I’ll agree to anything if you’ll let me take off this travesty and go eat waffles.”

 

 

 

 

Emma’s spent more time at the fitness center than she’s spent anywhere else in the past week, mostly because it is easier to lose the constant presence of her personal assistant in the rose-scented fog of the spa than it is to football tackle other people in order to outrun the tiny 20-something. Emma’s currently laid out in the sauna, blinds over her eyes, towel over her ass, and sweet, sweet silence. She had to leave the house at 5 am this morning to make her exit unnoticed, but it was so very worth it.

And yet the persistently bubbly little thing still manages to sniff her out.

“Miss Swan?”

 _Fuck._ She refuses to lift her face from the cedar boards. “Nope, not me. I’m not here right now.”

“You’re so funny, Miss Swan! I’m so glad I tracked you down. You must have forgotten about your appointment today with that nice journalist lady.”

Ariel is about a foot shorter than Emma, although her bright red - dye job? definitely a dye job - mass of hair accounts for half her body weight. Ariel is bouncy, straight out of college, and sometimes forgets the words for common objects, like forks and mirrors. Despite the fact that she weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, she is absolutely terrifying to Emma.

Emma feels a light tap on her shoulder, and lifts up her mask to see her worst nightmare. Ariel is holding her gigantic agenda over her face so as to not see Emma indisposed - and yet she can tell that Ariel is definitely smiling cheerfully behind the agenda, ever the optimist.

“You hadn’t been answering your phone calls, but I knew you’d be here. You’ve been so focused on your fitness lately! It’s really admirable!”

“Can we cancel that appointment with the journalist?”

“Another joke, Miss Swan! Hilarious!”

“Ariel, you can call me Emma. Seriously. Regina is the only one who calls me Miss Swan.”

Ariel makes a shocked face behind the agenda, and then nods with understanding. “Is that an...an _intimate_ thing?”

“Christ, no. Well...maybe, whatever.” Emma gets to her feet, pulling her towel over her. Ariel is still holding up the agenda, bumping into a wall when she tries to follow Emma. “I was serious about canceling that appointment. I’m not an appointment kinda gal, you know?” 

“Surely you make appointments with your doctor, Miss Swan.”

“I kinda just take it on a case to case basis. Like, I’ll wander in if it won’t stop bleeding, or if I don’t think I can reattach it myself.”

Ariel starts giggling uncontrollably, and then stops when she sees that Emma is not also laughing. She wipes the sweat from her brow, which is probably from the sauna but could also be from the fact that Emma is a difficult charge.

“Well, Miss Sw-- _Emma_ , sorry. I can’t cancel with this journalist because you’ve rescheduled with her twice already, and three times would be considered pretty rude. Also, it shows that she’s committed, if she’s still trying to interview you even though you keep blowing her off.”

Emma steps behind the curtain of the changing room outside of the sauna. “What’s the interview about?”

“About your recent rise to fame as a celesbian.”

Emma nearly shoves her head back through the curtains. “As a _what_?”

Ariel’s voice continues cheerfully from the other side. “And I know you said I shouldn’t do this anymore, but Zazu said I have to even if you tell me not to - your Twitter mentions today were 547, you appeared as a feature on 14 blogs, as a mention on 219, and you were used as a referential joke on Conan last night.”

“What was the joke?”

“Hang on, it’s in the email. Oh, right here. ‘We’ve had politicians sleeping with interns, prostitutes, and all levels of call girl, but this is the first time a politician has slept with her nanny and then gotten a front cover spread celebrating it. Regina Mills is a badass. But I guess if my nanny could kill my opponent, I’d keep her close, too.’”

“That’s not even funny.” Emma takes a moment to massage her temples before pulling up her pants. “Not inaccurate, unfortunately, although front cover is a stretch.”

“You were on the cover of Us Weekly and People, Miss Swan. That’s really impressive!”

Emma emerges in the black jeans Regina thought she looked cute in, even if the pricetag was _not_ cute, and one of her old t-shirts. _You can’t teach a dog new tricks, even if the dog is supposed to look nice for the paparazzi._ “Do you have a boyfriend, Ariel?”

“I, um...I mean, there’s this guy, but I’m fathoms below him--”

“Well, imagine that you’re just trying to have a fun normal relationship with this guy, and then everyone wants to take pictures and write articles about it. For no reason.”

“Actually, you caught the cultural zeitgeist of worldwide movements for marriage equality and a new focus on LGBTQ celebrities as leaders of pop culture and politics. That’s kind of a reason.”

“I...wait, what?”

“I was a sociology major, and then when I did Semester at Sea, I studied cultural movements as--”

“Why are you slumming it as my personal assistant?”

“This is a fantastic opportunity, Miss Swan!” She looks slightly unnerved when Emma raises an eyebrow at her. “And Zazu has known my father for years and the economy isn’t great and I _really_ needed a job when I graduated.”

“Woomp, there it is.” Emma is steering their progress towards the smoothie bar, where she may be able to distract Ariel with bright colors and fruit. “Look kid, I’m just saying - if you wanted to take the afternoon off, no one needs to know. I will take our secrets to the grave. We can spit into our palms and shake hands or something.”

Ariel takes this vision with the least amount of enthusiasm Emma’s seen from the girl, but she finally nods tentatively and regenerates that eerily bright smile of hers. “If I wasn’t here, you’d never make it to all these important interviews.”

“Ah,” Emma deadpans. “Wouldn’t that be a tragedy.”

 

 

 

 

Life changes rapidly, a fact Emma never doubted. But here’s the rest of the facts:

Emma and Regina went viral. Big time.  
Apparently a female politician having an affair with her female nanny was something the American public found completely captivating, go figure. As Zazu likes to point out, they are the polar opposite to the political scandals that had “disillusioned the late 2000s”, as he put it. And the fact that Regina was already the high profile mayor of one of the largest cities on the East Coast only makes the novelty of their relationship even more darling in the news.  
The paparazzi sucks huge donkey balls. Because when they’re not desperately trying -- and sometimes succeeding -- to capture Emma and Regina kissing, or holding hands, or innocuously getting groceries, they like to take pictures of Emma coming back from the gym, or looking extremely unflattering while getting the paper in her sweats. They seem really focused on catching Emma in as horrible and undressed a state as possible.  
Zazu wants Emma to quit her nannying gig. Emma does not.   
Zazu wants Emma to get a radical haircut. Emma does not.  
Zazu wants Emma and Regina to go on the Ellen Show. Emma does not. Regina _really_ does not, and has threatened to fire Zazu if he brings it up one more time.  
Emma and Regina really need a vacation.

 

 

 

 

So it figures that whoever this interviewer is decides to be late, which Emma guesses is probably a subtle retaliation for all those times she rescheduled on her. Who wants to conduct a business meeting at some ritzy bar, though? Emma orders a water and stares pathetically at it while pretending like she isn’t itching to play hooky. 

“If it isn’t the mayor’s very own Swan,” is the line that interrupts her attempt to take the drink in one gulp, and she sputters, reaches out for the extended hand that is attached to someone who does not look even remotely like someone about to conduct a professional interview. In fact, she looks a whole lot more like someone Emma has already met.

“It’s Mal, right?”

Mal Drake takes a seat at the bar next to Emma, all five feet nine inches and all-white ensemble of her. Emma figures this is probably a casual look for the woman - she crosses and uncrosses legs that end with stiletto sandals, looking Emma over from head to comfortable footwear. 

“You’re not expecting Regina, are you? She’s positively _ferocious_ when she’s involved with someone. I’d hate to ruin your date.”

_Oh, I’m sure you’d haaaaate that._

“Actually, I’m waiting for someone else. It’s kind of...it’s a business meeting.”

“Are you a cocktail kind of gal? What am I saying, that jawline and those shoulders - you must be a whiskey drinker. Let’s get you one. Who says the afternoon has to be dry?”

“I’m fine, honestly. I appreciate it, but--”

“Don’t make a girl drink by herself. It’s a waste of my reputation, and a waste of someone as attractive as yourself.” Mal makes a face, pouting those gigantic red lips. She pulls off her sunglasses, gives Emma a look that is a lot less rival and a lot more cougar. “Regina would be very disappointed in me if I didn’t buy you at least one drink, as we both know.”

“Regina’s not a big day drinker.”

Mal’s smile becomes conspiratorial. “Oh, you didn’t know Regina back in the day. The naughtiest of the naughty schoolgirls.”

“So you implied the last time we met.”

“Before she was god’s gift to the future of American government, she was the terror of Cape Cod. Granted they thought she was the gardener’s daughter or some kind of charity case, but they were all in love with her. Boys, girls, etcetera. She was not very well-behaved and people were drawn to it like moths to a barbeque. She skewered them all.”

“How about yourself?”

“Was I skewered?” Mal gives Emma a careful little wink. “You may have already discovered that Regina prefers to be the one who gets skewered.”

_Oh, that’s really fucking subtle._

Mal continues as if Emma didn’t ever so slightly roll her eyes at this. “She was very vulnerable. She’d been obsessed with this boy, Daniel. He was the driver’s son, worked with the horses over the summer. Obviously I hated him, and she thought he was the soulful stableboy that she was going to love forever. And then, well, there was the tragedy.”

Emma swallowed. “Did he...did he die?”

Mal snorted. “No, Swan. Don’t be so macabre. He might as well have died, because he went to Oxford and got a very rich girlfriend and pretended that he was never the driver’s son. I thought it was very Julia Ormond of him. Regina was a complete wreck about it, very messy of her, so I decided to cheer her up.” Mal waves her fingers like a magician. “I think I did a reasonable job of it.”

“That’s...” Emma wishes this water also contained some other type of liquid, preferably one that required a legal form of identification to purchase. “That’s great. Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I really do have to meet someone.”

“Of course, of course.” Mal slips a few seats down the bar. “Don’t mind me.”

_Is she...is she psyching me out?_

It’s at this moment that a woman appears at the front of the bar, makes pointed eye contact with Emma, and waves. Emma has never been happier to see someone she would have worked extra hard to avoid about twenty minutes ago.

“Emma Swan? Sorry I’m late, I hope this is still a good time.”

“It’s the _best_ time, truly superb.”

 

 

 

 

“How did the interview go?”

Emma jumps a little at the interrogation, thinking she’d managed to come home to an empty house only to find Henry in the kitchen, giving her an expectant look from over his chocolate milk. She drops her gym bag onto the floor, sliding next to him. 

“Good afternoon to you, too, Henrietta. I see we are forgoing pleasantries today in favor of nosy questions.”

“Ariel said to ask you that if you came home before three.”

“When did you become Ariel’s errand boy?”

Henry shrugs, the picture of innocence. “She buys me ice cream.”

“I also buy you ice cream!”

“Well, she buys me banana splits.”

“With a price.” 

Henry continues to act like he is the prince of irreproachability, putting on a very grown-up voice. “Ariel knows the value of my services.”

“Okay garbanzo, spill.”

“No Boston baked, _you_ spill. Did you go to the interview? Ariel told me that you would try to get out of it somehow.”

“And I’m sure you defended your absolute bestest friend and nanny by telling Ariel that I am the picture of responsibility, and would never do such a thing.”

Henry rolls his eyes. Emma holds his chocolate milk hostage.

“Emma, you have to go to interviews.”

“I _did_ go to the interview. It was totally fine. What was not as totally fine is the fact that I think one of your mom's friends is stalking me or something, but that's just...a whole ‘nother thing.”

“Someone’s _stalking_ you? We need to do a counter-stalking strike! I’m on the detail, all we need is--”

“Stand down, Agent Henrietta. You can put together all the counter-stalking strike plans you want when you’ve finished your homework. Much as I would love to utilize your abilities as a top government spy, I need to be a responsible adult and make sure your new school doesn’t catch on to your double life.”

Henry grabs the glass back from Emma and takes a deep sip of his chocolate milk. “I don’t have any homework.”

“Did you learn to lie from your mom?”

Henry turns bright red. “No. I’m not, uh, well...that _wasn’t_ a lie.”

“Because your mother also turns bright red and takes big gulps of liquids when she’s trying to avoid the subject.”

Henry makes a great effort to physically distance himself from his chocolate milk. “And since I don’t have any homework, I thought maybe we could just, um, go for a walk around the neighborhood?”

Emma blinks. “Are you trying to get me out of the house?”

“ _No._ No, I’m really not, Emma. I promise.”

“Is someone planning a surprise party for me? I haven’t accomplished anything lately that would be worthy of a surprise party.”

“It’s not a surprise party. I would probably accidentally tell you if it was a surprise party.”

“You _are_ notoriously bad at secrets, it’s true.”

“So we can go for a walk?”

“As long as I’m not coming back to a dark living room full of people with cake, sure.”

Henry smirks. “I will tell mom to never throw you a surprise party.”

“Psh, I doubt that was in her plans. Your mom is even worse at secrets than you are.”

For example, just the night before, Regina was telling Emma that it would be really irresponsible and delicious to have sex in her office, but then she immediately tried to take it back lest Emma get any ideas. Emma did get some very specific ideas.

 

 

 

 

“You wanna tell me why we’ve circled this same block three times?”

Henry has led Emma on a very confusing expedition through the neighborhood, one that has involved a slow and repetitive circling of the same street. Henry has his hands shoved in his pockets, a gesture that seems to be his socially awkward attempt at being aloof, and he gives her a look, leans up against a tree, and pulls his hood up.

“What...what are you doing?”

“Shh,” he says, and he has produced sunglasses out of nowhere. “I’m playing cool, Emma. Real cool.”

Emma throws up her hands, joining him in a very uncomfortable lean against the tree. “I didn’t realize we were on Jets territory. Shall I call the other Sharks? Just a heads up, I have weak ankles, so any dance battles are going to be in their favor.”

Henry throws her an exasperated look from behind his sunglasses, but he freezes up when the garage door opens on the house across the street. 

“Stay cool,” he whispers, his voice wavering. He folds his arms across his chest, maintaining his stance against the tree trunk. In two words, he looks adorably ridiculous. But ridiculous nonetheless.

A girl around Henry’s age has emerged from the garage, along with her dog. Emma notices that Henry has produced a coin, which he is attempting to casually flip in his hand. He drops it a number of times, and then ends up losing it in a storm drain. The girl doesn’t seem to notice. Emma, however, has noticed everything.

“Oh my god,” she hisses. “This is a girl thing. You have a crush on that girl.”

Henry wipes the sweat from his brow. “Not now, _not now_.”

“This is why you wanted to watch West Side Story every night last week? I just thought you were trying to get in touch with your dancing, singing roots.”

“I’m trying to play it cool, okay?” Henry pirouettes off the tree trunk. The girl has now disappeared around the corner. Emma watches, or rather gapes, as Henry takes off in that direction, fingers snapping and gait rather...musical.

“Henry, I love you, so I can say this and it comes from a place of love: you look a little unhinged.”

Henry’s face falls. “Is this not how you get girls?”

“Did you see me dancing in front of your mother? Or snapping my fingers, like, ever?”

“Mom is different. She’s really picky. And besides, Marie said she likes musicals.”

“Marie? So the target of this dance number has a name?”

Henry throws his hands in the air, suddenly full of nervous energy. “She’s in my class. And she’s really pretty, and really smart, and this is stupid, I know, I’m ten. I don’t want to like, go on a date, because that’s gross. But I want her to think I’m _cool_.”

Emma kneels down, taking him by his shoulders. “You _are_ cool, kid. In your very own uniquely Enriquely way.” 

Henry rolls his eyes. “I know I’m not cool.”

“You have really specific and non-mainstream interests. You own more than one bowtie. Someday you will grow up to be a really successful brand of hipster, and girls will flock to you like you and I flock to grilled cheese. But for now, you _are_ cool. You’re way cooler than I was as a kid. All of my clothes were hand-me-down, my haircut was always five years out of style, and the only way I knew how to socialize with people was by punching them in the face.”

Henry looks concerned. “That’s very violent, Emma.”

“It’s also not very cool. Look, if you want advice in getting this girl to think you’re awesome, I’m more than happy to offer it. Although your mom probably--”

Henry frantically shakes his head. “Do _not_ tell mom.”

“But your mom--”

“Nope.”

“But--”

“No way, Emma.”

Emma sighs. “Okay, kid, I promise.”

“Triple pinky swear.”

“If I had three pinkies, know they would all be crossed in your honor.”

“Good,” Henry seems satisfied with this answer. “So what’s the first thing I need to do?”

“Well, you probably don’t need to snap your fingers and sway from side to side when you walk.”

Henry looks unsure, his fingers poised in a tentative snap. “Are you...are you sure?”

“I’m like 99.9% sure, yeah.”

 

 

 

 


	20. in which we reach the climax

 

 

 

 

Regina’s interns are adorable. Not in a cutesy puppy way, but in an adorably-easy-to-freak-out way. Which is why Emma’s latest hobby has been finding ways to surprise and horrify them. Her latest technique is showing up to Regina’s office without an appointment.

The intern she has named The Tall One immediately gets to his feet when she steps into the lobby of the mayor’s office, putting on a smile Emma has started to realize is reserved only for her. It is equal parts friendly and terrified.

“Miss Swan,” he starts, smoothing his too-short tie. “So nice to see you again. Are you here to see the mayor?”

“Indeed I am. That’s why I’m wearing my stripper pants today.”

The Tall One looks slightly alarmed. “Well, um, she’s not --”

“I’m kidding, Tall Intern. I don’t own stripper pants.” 

“Right, um --”

“But if I did, I would not wear them in a government building. Because there’s probably a law. Is there? You’re the one who knows government things, so I assume you’d give me warning. Like, if I ever purchase stripper pants, I’m going to call you, Tall Intern, and say, tell me what laws I am breaking and how. Tell me how to not get caught breaking laws in my stripper pants.”

Tall Intern thinks for a minute. “I mean, I don’t _think_ they’re breaking any laws.”

The Intern Formerly Known as Freckles adjusts her glasses. “You can’t be nude in here. Security would remove you and it’d be considered public indecency.”

Tall Intern screws up his face. “Are stripper pants nudity? You’re still wearing something under them.”

The Intern Formerly Known as Freckles shrugs. “It just means you can take them off one-handed, right?”

“No, it’s like, you can rip them off but they don’t rip. They’re dramatic.”

“Flamboyant.”

“The old razzle-dazzle.” Tall Intern makes jazz hands before realizing what he’s doing, and then looks apologetically at Emma. “I’m a theatre minor at Georgetown,” he explains, and then blushes as he consults the computer monitor in front of him. “I’m sorry, Miss Swan, but Mayor Mills doesn’t have any openings today.”

Emma checks her watch, and then smiles. “What does she have at 5?”

“Uh, technically I’m not allowed to tell you her schedule.”

Emma pulls out a five, waving it conspiratorially. “How about this guy, Tall Intern? Can you tell Honest Abe what’s on Regina’s schedule?”

Tall Intern looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Are you trying to bribe a government official?”

Emma’s voice drops to a whisper, brow furrowing. “Okay kid, point number one, you are not a government official yet. Point number two, you and me both know this is an unpaid internship and you and Freckles over there are choking down dry ramen noodles for every meal, so my pal Lincoln isn’t looking half-bad right now, is he? I know your rich father got you this internship, but I’m guessing from your clown-ass tie that he’s been cutting the strings to teach you some life lessons, and your first round of the not-upper-class life is not going too hot, right?”

Tall Intern has now moved from friendly/terrified to just plain terrified. He looks between the five, Emma’s face, and his computer monitor for a minute more before giving up. He sighs, snatching the bill from Emma’s extended hand.

“She’s got a meeting with J. Walker at 5 PM today.”

Emma grins. “That’s what I thought.”

“Okay, but you can’t just disturb a meeting--”

“Oh, me and Mr. Walker are old friends. We go _way_ back. I’ll just pop my head in and say hello.” She holds up the two takeout coffee cups in her hands. “See, just a drop-off.”

Tall Intern lets out a very long sigh, waving her towards the door. Emma winks.

“You’re an alright guy, Tall Intern.”

“Thanks, Miss Swan.” And Tall Intern gives her an exasperated nod onward.

 

 

 

 

Emma never gets sick of seeing Regina in her office. It probably tickles her whole women-in-positions-of-power thing, but it’s also just the way the lady looks when she’s in her environment, the tigress in the jungle. 

And what a jungle it is. Regina’s office is all prestige and imposing first impressions, blue velvet curtains and expensive furniture and the city crest emblazoned on just about everything. It’s just like the mayor to go for regal and intimidating in her own space of power. Speaking of the mayor, she’s reading through a document when Emma knocks. Emma recognizes the particular cut of that cobalt dress, having seen it both on and off its current wearer. She specifically remembers that its side zip is still possible to do one-handed with three drinks in you, so she has a special fondness for the little number.

“Sorry to bother, Your Majesty. I’m here for an appointment with the city mayor.”

Regina pulls off her glasses, giving one of those wicked little smiles that still manage to pluck Emma’s ovaries like buttercups. 

“Making a social call, Miss Swan?”

“You could say that.” Emma grins, leaning against the wall. She lets the fifth of Johnny Walker peek out of her pocket. “More like a delivery.”

“Just what I ordered.” Regina bends over to pull two glasses from somewhere under her desk, smiling knowingly as she places them in front of her. Emma is convinced that there is a complete bar set hidden somewhere in this room. She’s knocked on enough bookshelves in her efforts to find what she assumes is a secret compartment, to no avail. Regina remains tight-lipped on the matter. “I’m going to guess those coffees are decoys.”

Emma shakes the empty cups. “You’ve guessed correctly. Couldn’t have all these impressionable interns thinking their mayor is participating in daytime debauchery.”

“It’s 4:59. Hardly the daytime.”

Emma takes her usual seat in front of the desk, producing the fifth. “If we down these in sixty seconds, it’s just about.”

“ _That_ is debauchery.”

Emma unscrews the Johnny Walker, pouring two not-so-precise glasses. “Eh, we’re a big-time media scandal. They expect that kind of shit from us these days. I should befriend a Kardashian just to keep with their standards.”

“Speaking of which, Zazu wants to speak with you at some point.”

“What did I do now?”

“How am I to know?” Regina takes her drink, giving it a scrunched-nose sip. “Actually, I probably don’t want to know. He and I differ on the working definition of your bad behavior.”

“How did he sound? Chastising or self-congratulatory?”

Regina shrugs. “I think you should expect a healthy amount of lecturing.”

Emma waggles her eyebrows with a healthy dose of conspiracy. “Do you think he’s caught on to our little happy hours?”

Regina laughs into her glass. She still loves this. “He is the last person on earth to lecture _anyone_ on day drinking.”

“You don’t think he’s paying off one of your interns, do you? I’d put my money on Freckles. She seems less hangry than the taller one.”

“No, I’m sure he hasn’t. And on that note, please stop terrorizing my interns, Emma.”

“Who told you I terrorize them?”

“I have learned from multiple sources that you bribe them.”

“Bribe? Your intel is way off. I contribute to their college fund, sure. In very small increments, but I assure you that they are using the money in very responsible ways.”

“Do you know their real names?”

“Sure. Tall Intern is George, and he supplemented his passion for political science with his love for theatre at Georgetown.”

“His name is Gregory.”

“Right, George is the nickname I call him because we are so close and friendly.”

Regina rolls her eyes, finishing her drink. She slides it back across the desk. “You think you’re so cute, Miss Swan.”

“On the contrary,” Emma says, taking a swig. “I _know_ I’m so cute. How else would I have charmed a fair lady so above my station?”

Regina’s all spark and smirk. “‘Charmed’ is a very, _very_ strong word.”

Emma downs her drink, setting the empty glass down like a challenge. “How would you describe it then?”

“I’ve said it before, and it still holds true.” Regina leans forward, that fire in her eyes. Emma could just about groan out loud. “You have a unique talent for growing on a person.”

Emma feels the entire glass of Scotch running through her at once. “I think I do a lot more than grow on them.”

“What you do or do not do ‘on me’ is beside the point.”

“I’m pretty sure it _is_ the point.” Emma gets to her feet, knowing the mayor’s eyes haven’t left her. “And if you’re not convinced yet, let me _make_ it the point.” 

Regina’s watching her like a hawk now, the tension in her body visible. “I’m listening.”

“What time is your next appointment?”

“6:30.”

“Perfect.” Emma glances to either corner of the room. “There aren’t cameras in here, right?”

“No.” Regina raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making sure we don’t end up with an accidental sex tape. I’m not about to be a Ray J over here.”

Regina’s flushed a bit, and Emma can detect that minute change that she’s only recently picked up on: the nails curling into fists, shortness of breath and teeth grazing her bottom lip. “You don’t mean --”

“Oh, I do.”

And that’s how Emma ends up on her knees under the desk of Brooke City’s illustrious mayor.

 

 

 

 

“ _Fuck_ , fuck,” Regina’s whispering, knuckles white on the arms of her chair. Prior to becoming utterly and completely distracted by fulfilling a months-old fantasy, Emma was pleased to discover just how spacious it was under Regina’s desk. You could practically build a fort in there! This was before being preoccupied by what else was under the desk, being a pair of incredibly nice legs and the dress they disappeared into, a dress that Emma had already hiked up for its owner.

“You’re going to have to be quieter than that,” she hisses, and curls her fingers deeper. The mayor writhes, back arching in her seat. “I don’t suppose we could buy Tall Intern a Spotify account or something, and throw in some headphones.”

“Not...now...” Regina clutches at the back of Emma’s head, forcing her back into place. Emma resists, grinning as she nips on the soft inside of Regina’s thigh with the side of her mouth. 

“You don’t make the rules today, Mayor Mills,” she says, every bit of her humming. “You’re being too loud for that. Bite down on your hand.”

For once, the mayor does as she’s told. When she moans into her fingers, Emma’s chest just about busts open with want and need and fucking cockiness, fucking _I did that to the fucking mayor in her fucking office because this is my life now and --_

There is a knock on the door. Regina squirms, shoving Emma under the desk with a muffled shriek and pulling down her dress. Emma freezes as the knock comes again.

Regina clears her throat, but from Emma’s current view of her lap, she can see that her hand is shaking. “C-come in,” she says, and if Emma wasn’t currently filled with a deep inner panic, she’d probably have to break into a cocky grin at the fact that she’s the one who makes the mayor’s voice sound like that.

“Mayor Mills?” Tall Intern. Damn it. “You have a visitor who--”

“Regina, darling.” _Zazu?_ Fucking hell. This guy must have extra sensory perception for catching Emma in the most awkward positions. “So glad I caught you.”

“I have an appointment, Zazu.”

“Really? Are they running late?”

There’s the sound of Tall Intern clearing his throat. Good old awkward gangly Tall Intern. “Um, Miss Swan should be--”

“She just left.” Regina interjects, hand balling into a fist in her lap. Emma wouldn’t be surprised if she crossed her fingers at this point.

“Oh good, then you’re free.” Footsteps approach the desk, and there’s the sound of the glass on the table being lifted and placed back down. “So, how is our muscular nanny today? Did she stay long?” The clinking of empty glass on glass. “That would explain Scotch for two. I do hope she didn’t drink and drive. That’s the kind of scandal I really _can’t_ cover up. I am a miracle worker, but I am not a miracle.”

“I really don’t have much time, Zazu.”

There’s the sound of Zazu settling into Emma’s previously occupied chair. Emma takes this moment to pray to Baby Jesus and the stars of Wrestlemania that she promises to go to church every Sunday from now on if they will just make sure the panel that covers the front of this desk remains firmly in place.

“It won’t take long, darling. My bones are old and need the occasional seat with all the hustling and scheming I do. It wears on a man of my age.” Emma feels a knock as his foot rests against the desk. She wonders just how long she can maintain her current position of contorted limbs, neck craned to the side, and covered in the sexual fluids of the mayor of Brooke City.

“So,” Regina says, and she’s making some sort of hand signal under the desk. Emma has no idea what this means, so she remains completely still and hopes this represents an escape plan that won’t involve Emma having to come up with shit. “What can I do for you, Zazu?”

“We need to talk about Emma.”

“We...we do?” Regina crosses and uncrosses her legs. Only Emma gets that particular view, but it’s a view provided by the panties that have been removed and are now...and are now...? _Fuck._ Emma wildly searches the floor for those red lacy... _fuck_! They are currently near the window. On the floor. She has no idea if they are within Zazu’s eyesight but they are very much present and not on their person. 

Oh, this is very bad.

“I know how fond you are of her, so I want you to take this conversation like a mayor, and not someone with your certain brand of fondness.”

There’s a twinge of irritation in Regina’s voice. “We’re in a relationship, Zazu.”

“I know, darling. It’s all very love and kisses, I’m sure. Do you still pay her?”

“I...no. That stopped months ago. It didn’t seem right.” Regina’s hand is still balled in a fist in her lap. Emma watches it dig a little further in between her thighs, knuckles pale.

“So she’s just working part-time at that...gymnasium?”

“She’s a personal trainer.”

“Not full-time, though, is she?”

The twinge of irritation is now unmistakably a tone. “No, Zazu. She isn’t.” Regina leans forward, the toe of her stiletto now somewhere near Emma’s sternum. “Where are you going with this?”

“You cannot run for reelection as an unmarried lesbian in a relationship with her underworked servant.”

“I’m not a lesbian.”

“Whatever you are, darling. Although really, you should probably pick one of the more well-known labels because the constituents only have the patience for about three of the letters in LGBTQ.”

Regina seems to ignore this statement and move right on. “Emma isn’t my servant. And she’s not ‘underworked’ or however you stupidly put it. This is ridiculous.”

“I am not speaking as Zazu now. I am speaking as your voters, and the city as a whole. Your opponents are running on restoring family values to the city. How do you think they’ll refer to you and yours in their ads, hmm?”

“A few months ago, you couldn’t stop singing and dancing about how Emma was the greatest thing to happen to my campaign.”

“Well, I thought she would have made a more serious move by now.”

“What kind of move?”

“Have you two thought about marriage?”

Emma doesn’t even realize she’s making the noise until she makes it. It’s one of those noises that your traumatized soul has to make by pushing a lot of ugly air out your nose, and the only way to stop is apparently to have your girlfriend’s stiletto plummeted directly into your chest.

There’s a pause following that, and Emma claps a hand over her own mouth, wincing.

“Are you alright, Regina?”

“Yes, I just...” Regina’s hand makes a swipe under her desk for Emma’s face, vaguely menacing. “You surprised me, Zazu.”

“Really? Aren’t two women already decided on the wedding theme and the names of their children by the second date?”

Regina snorts. “It’s more like the third,” which Emma honestly can’t _disagree_ with, “but that’s a joke, Zazu. I’m joking.” Regina leans forward again, knees on either side of Emma’s head. She would probably enjoy this more in many other circumstances, preferably the more undisturbed ones fifteen minutes ago. “I’m not marrying someone for an election, Zazu.”

“This is very interesting. Do you mind?” There’s the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, and something heavy on the table. _Bastard is drinking my Johnny!_ “Can I ask you an earnest question, Regina?”

“You always do, Zazu.”

“Do you _want_ to marry Emma?”

Emma stops nursing her bruised sternum and freezes. Regina has also frozen, her foot no longer bobbing. 

“I don’t mean tomorrow, darling,” Zazu continues, that trademark purr to his voice. “I don’t claim to know the state of your relationship or what you expect to get out of it, but it is a little bit of my business to know if my star candidate has any intention of making permanent her relationship with my star strategy.”

“Please don’t refer to Emma as a strategy, Zazu.” Regina’s voice is very quiet. Emma is staring at Regina’s palm, flattened in her lap, fingers still and spread.

“I’ll take your avoidance of the question to mean you wouldn’t marry her, no. And that’s fine, darling, your lack of commitment that was once the burden of your father can be my burden now, too, as I don’t claim to --”

“Don’t do that,” Regina says, and the palm curls into a nervous fist again. “I don’t mean that, actually. I _would_ marry her, eventually. If she...if that’s what she wanted.”

There’s a clapping noise - did Zazu just clap his hands? - and a shifting of the chair on the other side of the desk. “That’s brilliant, darling. That is what I like to hear. _This,_ ” and his voice drops slightly, conspiratorially. “This I can work with, yes.”

Regina’s hand disappears. Emma assumes from her position that her head is in her hand on the desk. “Please don’t orchestrate some horrible viral video of a proposal, Zazu.”

Zazu laughs. “Darling, would I ever do that?”

“Without hesitation. I know what you’re capable of, you know.”

“I’m not going to force her hand, Regina --”

“I mean it.”

“But if she needs a little bit of encouragement, well. You know that I am capable of an entirely appropriate and professional nudge.”

“No nudging. None.”

“Regina, it will not cross a single line, trust me.”

“Trust? Zazu, please. I trust that you will cross whatever line you deem necessary to _do_ what you deem necessary--”

“And that is why I am the best. I’m just happy to know that you would plan a future with Miss Swan. With a small bit of spit shine, she cleans up to be a real catch.”

Regina’s hand drops into her lap again, fingers limp. “She _is_ a catch,” she says, though there is the slightest bit of defeat in her voice. Zazu has gotten his way, as usual.

“I’m sure when you’re running for senator, the adoring fans of your wife will agree with you. That _does_ work for your schedule, doesn’t it? Five years from now, you won’t duck out on me with maternity leave, or at least I hope. Try to have the babies on the off years so you take the minimum time only.”

“ _Zazu._ ”

“Or is Henry enough for the two of you? You’re still young enough to get a few out of the way. You are ever so maternal, darling.”

This is actually ridiculous. Emma stares intently at Regina’s fist, now tight on her thigh.

“Please don’t tell me you expect an answer to that.”

“Well, if you haven’t thought about it, you should. The unfortunately necessary part of coaching a female politician is that I have to become intimately familiar with her ovulation cycles. Plan your children around the campaign season, if you please. Unless she would be the one having them, which would be _extremely_ beneficial come to think of it so --”

“No,” Regina says, and Emma has no idea what it is she’s hearing in her voice. This tone is new and unfamiliar. Conveniently, Emma can’t remember how to breathe. “I’d...have them.”

“Oh, so you _have_ discussed this. Perfect.”

“We haven’t. Technically. Yet.” Now both of Regina’s hands are kneading the edge of her dress. “I just...I don’t know, Zazu. It doesn’t matter.” Her voice regains its more familiar tone, the frustration and control taking over. “This is so beyond the point that I can’t believe you thought you could bring it up. I will not jump into some rushed marriage with Emma to look better for my campaign. I won’t schedule my completely hypothetical pregnancies around the political seasons. You want the photoshoot, fine. We’ve allowed you to schedule limited interviews for Emma, and she takes them. But those are the lines we’ve drawn. The first conversation we had about this still stands. Leave her be, Zazu.”

“Very well, Regina.” The sound of a chair moving and feet on the floor. Zazu has probably gotten to his feet. Regina has very noticeably not gotten to her feet, probably because Emma remains sitting on them. “I’m glad we had this little talk. I love having these insights into your life. I know it doesn’t always seem this way, but it makes my life and yours much easier in the long run.”

“Of course, Zazu.”

“ _Hasta la próxima,_ darling.”

Regina lets out a sigh that seems to shake Emma just as well. There are footsteps towards the door, and then the sound of the door cracking open. Emma holds her breath, equal parts cramped and shocked and everything else that comes with overhearing that kind of conversation, particularly when poised between the knees of your partner.

“Oh, and Regina?” Of course Zazu isn’t done.

“Yes?”

“There’s something under your window. I’d get a new maid in here if I were you. Clearly she’s not doing a thorough enough job.”

Regina’s torso twists to look at the pile of red silk under the windowsill. “ _Carajo_ ,” she mutters, and then the door closes. She pushes back her chair, looking down at Emma.

“Emma --”

“Uh,” and right now Emma can only think of getting to her feet, wiping her mouth and trying not to trip over her shoes. “I have to go.”

“We should talk about this.”

Emma doesn’t even pause to retrieve her liquor, which is saying something. “No, I really have to go.”

“Will I see you at home?”

Emma stops at the door, taking a moment to breathe. Fuck, how do you breathe again? “I...don’t know. I have some stuff to do. It will take me, uh...a while. So...I guess don’t expect me home.”

Regina gets to her feet, and damn it all that she’s got that sad, terrified expression, the one that makes Emma want to pull her closer and tell her everything is going to be okay and feed her chicken soup with a heart-shaped spoon. Damn it all.

“How long is a while?”

“I have no idea,” Emma says, and closes the door on that face before she changes her mind. Just like she marches out to the lobby, and presses the button on the elevator, and closes the doors.

 

 

 

 


	21. in which we begin to tie up the loose ends of the plot in as saccharine a manner as possible

 

 

 

 

The Bad Apple is one of the less savory dives on this side of Brooke City, but it’s one of the few places on the planet where Emma has her picture on the wall. She’d just beaten the record for Most Woo-Woo Shots Consumed in Five Minutes, and the owner Sean ‘Smee’ Sheehan had grabbed her wrist and shoved her arm into the air in victory, despite the fact she could barely hold up her elbow. The resulting photo features Emma, wild-eyed and staring into the abyss, with half of her hair falling over a litter of emptied shotglasses. It’s five years old but it’s still right there behind the counter, next to a framed dollar bill signed by an extra from Rocky II. Smee rights it when it gets crooked. That, she thinks, is a sign that you’ve meant something to somebody.

And yeah, she is proud of that picture, in spite of its less than classy circumstances. It might be one of the reasons she ended up here, face down on the bar, smelling the familiar wood that reeks of stale beer and smoke. It smells homey, even if it is not home. She has a home now. Home is a house in the suburbs where she eats waffles and gets kisses and --

“You’re scaring off the customers,” Smee says, leaning over her as he carefully slides her elbow away from his stack of clean glasses. “Ya gotta stop talking about the waffles and the kisses.”

“I _am_ a customer, Smee. This bar is a free and public territory.”

“This bar is _my_ territory, and my territory observes maritime law.”

“Then I’m a pirate, Smee. I’m drowning in the inevitableness of my nature in your maritime zone.”

“Yeesh.” Smee frowns with concern. Emma’s always liked him because despite his occasional babbling and affinity for ill-fitting striped shirts, he’s a good guy with a good heart. “You look like something that washed ashore three nights ago. How is it you’re this bad after one drink?”

Emma groans into her arms. “Because I’m drunk on my own sorrow.”

Smee tuts. “Quit being dramatic, Swan.”

“And quit playing this goddamned piece of shit song!” A gnarly-looking fella yells from the other end of the bar, as The Eagles’ Desperado plays for the nineteenth time in a row. “Goddamned fucking Desperado! I’m sick of it!”

Emma snarls over her shoulder. “Like you’ve got decent taste in music, Earl!”

“I want my damn Kenny Rogers back on.” Earl waves a dismissive hand at her. “Kenny Rogers wrote the only good song about poker there is. This is some pussy-ass song about poker. Goddamned Eagles pussifying my poker game. Easy-listening-ass Eagles.”

Smee steps towards the record player, but Emma points a threatening finger at him. “Don’t change that song, Smee. That song is my soul right now. Don’t you turn off my soul. Don’t you dim my doomed and jagged light.”

Earl is singing at the top of his lungs at this point, knocking his hands against the bar counter over the song he is apparently protesting. “ _You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em!_ ”

“Listen Swan,” and Smee’s got about as concerned an expression as his dimpled face can muster. “I do not quote lyrics lightly, especially when they are the lyrics of a song that my customer has forcibly played on repeat for the past hour. But you gotta let somebody love you before it’s too late.”

Emma gasps dramatically. “Smee, did you just use the Eagles against me?”

“ _You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the taaaaable!_ ”

“I read the papers, girl, I see you and yours. You finally got it right, Swan. You think that just happens? I used to watch you chase all manner of troubled tail around this joint. I was proud as a pop when you finally cleaned up your act and found yourself some happiness. And then one day you reappear, ask to play this song, and drink a...christ on a stick, what is that? A strawberry fucking daiquiri? I don’t even make those here, where the hell did you get that?”

Emma sucks pathetically on the bright pink straw. “TGIFriday’s.”

“The one two blocks over?”

“I brought it with me.”

“Jesus, Emma.” Smee shakes his head in disbelief, tiny red toque trembling. “She’s really got you messed up, huh?”

“I’m in love, Smee.”

“Congratulations.”

“No, Smee, it’s not something to celebrate. It’s the worst. It’s like, one day I was Iron Man, and then this really beautiful woman comes along and she takes my suit and she’s like okay, you gotta go fight Spiderman or whatever, but you can’t wear your suit.”

Smee blinks. “You sure they don’t slip something else in their daiquiris over there?”

“No, hear me out. I’m fighting Spiderman or, like, a spider monkey or something. And I used to have this super suit with armor and stuff so it was fine, I could fight whatever. But being in love means you take off the suit and you gotta be okay with it.”

“You’re afraid of being vulnerable!” Earl yells. 

Emma throws her straw in his general direction. “You don’t know me, Earl!”

Earl, who is almost off his stool at this point, gestures with a knobby finger. “Yes, I do! You’re that lesbian who used to drink all the Wild Turkey and dance on the tables, and now you’re doing the stuff with the mayor on the teevee!”

Emma glances back at Smee. “I guess he does know me.”

“Listen here, Wild Turkey,” Earl is now precariously tipping on his stool, with one finger extended for balance. “Love is rare. How many sodas you had in your life? A lot of sodas, right? Lots of soda machines out there. Gotta bang a lot of soda machines to get your drink out. Goddamned soda machines, they’re rigged. Anyway, you had maybe five thousand sodas in your life. How many times have you been in love?”

“I don’t know. Once or twice?”

“Exactly. A lot of soda pop, not a lot of love.” Earl grins. “It’s easy to get yourself a coke, cos all you need is a couple quarters. Not worth too much, that soda pop. No effort in it. You can’t count the number of cokes you’ve had because you’ve had too many. That’s how easy soda pop is. But love? You’ll never get to five fingers counting love. It’s a fool that finds themselves a drink of love but decides they’ll just keep having soda pop. So, here’s the question, Wild Turkey. What do you want to do with your quarters?”

Emma turns to Smee. “Is it weird he’s making sense?”

Smee shrugs. “Earl used to be a marriage counselor.”

“No shit.” Emma gives Earl a thumbs up. “Have a drink on me, Freud!”

“Fuck Freud!” Earl croaks, and then falls off his stool.

“You heard the man,” Smee says, sniffing Emma’s empty daiquiri glass. “What are you gonna do with your quarters?”

Emma gets to her feet, striking an overly dramatic pose. She narrows her eyes, wishing that in this moment she was wearing her most rugged leather jacket as opposed to her slightly rugged leather jacket. “I’m gonna use them wisely.”

“Uh, I don’t think this daiquiri was even alcoholic...” Smee’s saying, finishing the dregs for her.

Emma takes an increasingly dramatic stride to the jukebox, where the twenty-first play of Desperado is finishing. She brandishes two quarters, makes a dramatic effort to flip through the selections and announces to the bar: “I’m going to go make adult decisions while my theme song plays me out.”

She attempts to keep her cool while flipping through the selections...and reflipping through them. When she can’t find what she knows in her heart of hearts to be her theme song, she gives the jukebox a shake.

“Smee, _seriously_? You don’t have Freebird on here?”

Smee shrugs. Emma lets out a sigh. “Fine. Earl, I guess I owe you.”

And she puts on The Gambler.

Not exactly the theme song she was expecting to dramatically exit on, but it’ll do.

Of course, Emma Swan doesn’t expect to walk out the door of The Bad Apple and get hit by a car, either.

But she does.

 

 

 

 

“Emma?”

Bright lights. Really bright lights. Like, somebody turn off the goddamned lights already? And then an ache in her side, and her arm, and her legs, and all over. Everything all achy breaky. Kinda like that song by the mullet guy. _My achy breaky heart..._

“Emma, are you awake?”

Emma tries to rub at her eye, but realizes she can’t move her arm. This is also when she realizes she is in a hospital bed, and Ruby is sitting next to her, squeezing her hand. Ruby is also wearing a rhinestone-encrusted mini dress. Emma blinks.

“What happened?”

Ruby lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh god, she’s lost her memory! Okay, well, I am Ruby, your best friend in the whole world. I am...” Ruby thinks about this for a second, and then smiles convincingly. “I am a famous supermodel, and have had many handsome and rich boyfriends. You are a professional toilet salesman. I am really a saint because I have made a compassionate sacrifice to be friends with someone so below my level, and--”

“Rubes, I did not lose my memory.”

Ruby snaps her fingers, making a face. “Dang. I was going to convince you that every weekend you take me out and buy me things, because it’s a friendship tradition.”

“How would I do that if I’m a...what did you say I am? A professional toilet salesman?””

“In the fake society I would create for your amnesiac brain, we are all super rich.”

“How long did you expect to keep that up?”

Ruby shrugs. “Maybe a week, but it would be a truly fantastic week.” At this, Ruby looks serious again, grabbing Emma’s hand. “Dude, do you remember how you got here?”

Emma attempts to think back, but the drugs in her system feel way too warm and fuzzy for that. She remembers stepping out of the bar, and walking towards the sidewalk, but then -- nothing.

“Where’s Regina?”

“On her way. I’m still your emergency contact for some reason. Not that I mind, obviously my first date from Sugardaddywanted.com is less important than my best friend getting hit by a car, but--”

“I got hit by a _car_?” Emma attempts to sit up, only to feel a sharp pain in her side. “Shit, what’s that?”

“Probably your broken ribs.” Ruby winces for her. “You broke your arm, too, and dislocated your shoulder. You’re lucky that you landed in all that shrubbery Smee never bothered to trim.”

Emma looks down at her arm, finally realizing it is in a cast, and that the reason she is unable to move her torso is because it is completely wrapped. _Well, fuck._

“Be honest, Rubes. Do I look like hell?”

“You look about the same as any other time you exited The Bad Apple. Seriously, Emma, what were you doing there? You broke our pact.”

Emma’s starting to realize just how sore her head is, too. “What pact?”

“The ‘Stop Making Shit Decisions and Going to The Bad Apple’ Pact. Remember, five years ago we made a pact to each other that we would stop frequenting shitty bars and picking up unpleasant people because we never _ever_ make good decisions there?”

“I guess,” Emma says.

“Did something happen with Regina?”

Unfortunately, Emma’s slight memory loss does not extend to the entire afternoon. She sighs, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. This causes Ruby to ‘a-ha’ loudly. She gives Emma a knowing look.

“I _knew_ it. You always do this.”

Emma groans. “Always do what? Get hit by cars?”

“No, you always run away when you get too serious. You two have been together long enough that shit’s getting serious, and it scares you, so you went to The Bad Apple.” Ruby looks very pleased with herself. “It all makes sense now. Sheesh Swan, you are so predictable.”

“Am not.” Emma would swat her if she wasn’t completely bandaged and miserably sore right now. “I’m just...” She attempts her best James Dean squint in spite of her current circumstances. “I’m not the marrying type, okay?” 

Ruby could not roll her eyes harder. “Really? _Look at me, I’m so tortured and leather-clad. I’ll love you and leave you with my golden locks blowing in the wind. I’m Emma Swan, I smell like pine trees and motorcycle parts._ ”

“I don’t sound like that!”

“Of course you do, plus or minus a few decibels. That’s just the pain meds denying the truth.”

Emma can’t help but grin a little. “I won’t argue you on your facts: I _do_ smell like pine trees and motorcycle parts. It is my blessing, and my curse.”

“Gimme a break.” Ruby continues to roll her eyes. “You can no longer pretend to be the untouchable badass when I’ve listened to you passionately describe how much satisfaction you get out of tender hugs and applying band-aids to children’s elbows.”

“But Regina loves an untouchable badass.”

“I’m pretty sure her eggs drop for domesticity and a proclivity towards child-rearing.”

Emma snorts. “You don’t know Regina.”

“Really? The woman who enthusiastically removed her panties _only_ after watching you help raise her child and wash her dishes?”

As if summoned by the mention of her panties being removed, a blur of Regina Mills moves through the doorway and straight to the patient’s bed, all while breathlessly murmuring “ _Emma_.”

“Speak of the lady and thus she cometh,” Ruby starts under her breath, but Emma uses her one good leg to kick her.

Regina’s face is warped with concern, her eyes red. _Has she been...crying?_

“Emma, are you alright?” Regina clasps Emma’s hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. “We’re going to sue the _pants_ off that driver. He will have _nothing_ when I am done with him, nothing.”

Emma is both frightened and aroused. She’s also very sore.

“I’ve been better.” Emma lifts herself up a bit, attempting to look more put together. If her arm wasn’t completely immobile in the cast, she would totally flex it right now. Because she’s an idiot, or whatever. “You should see the other guy.”

“The other guy is a car--” Ruby points out, and then is shuffled out of the room by the appearance of the nurse. 

“Family and spouses only right now,” she says, and gives Regina a one-over. “Are you, um, family, Mayor Mills?”

It doesn’t take even a millisecond for Regina to nod firmly. “Yes,” she says. “I am.”

“She’s my grandmother,” Emma says, winking through a sharp pain. Regina almost swats her in the arm, and then seems to stop herself when she remembers. Instead she gives Emma a look and lifts her hand to her lips, giving it a concerned little kiss. 

“I’ll chalk that up to the pain meds,” the nurse says with a knowing smile. “Let’s check these vitals, shall we? Then you should get some more rest. Rest is the very best thing for you right now.”

“Excuse me, nurse,” Emma leans over and stage whispers, pointing to the drip. “What is the street name for this?”

“ _Emma._ ”

 

 

 

 

When Emma wakes up from her nap, Regina is curled up in the chair next to her, hand in hers. Her hand is tucked under her chin, head lowered to her chest. She looks smaller, more fragile. Emma wants more than anything to kiss her forehead and wrap her arms around and let her sink and sink and sink into the safe and warm place she’d make for them.

“Hey,” Emma says, and Regina smirks at her, though the expression is still masked with concern. 

“It’s okay if you want to keep sleeping,” Regina says, leaning forward to press a hand to her forehead. As if a fever is Emma’s problem right now. _The maternal instincts die hard in this one._ “The doctor said you should rest as much as possible.”

“Where’s Henry?”

“With my mother. I thought it was best if he didn’t see you yet.” Regina bites down on her bottom lip, looks away for a minute. “If it scared me to death the first time I saw you, then I assume it would scare him, too.”

“I look like a horror movie, huh?”

“No,” Regina says, smoothing out Emma’s blanket. “But you have two black eyes and a lot of bandages. When I got the call, I was...” She takes a deep breath. “I was terrified. To think that the last conversation between us was, well, you know.”

“Less a conversation and more me running away in panic?” Emma tries a smile. “Actually, I think the majority of the words we’d exchanged prior to that were Spanglish commands for ‘more’ and ‘don’t stop’.”

Regina looks away, blushing. “Right, that. That is something we will not be doing again.”

“No shit. Can you imagine me crawling under there in this getup?” Emma attempts to move at least one of her upper limbs for emphasis. “No go.” 

“It’s not the logistics I’m worried about.” Regina gives Emma a tender smile, shaking her head. “From now on, the wildest thing I am willing to do in that office is change the carpeting. That was very...unlike me.” At this, her smile fades. “And it was unlike me or you or anything in our relationship for the topics you overheard to be discussed. I would never want to have those conversations until you were ready.”

“Ah, right.” Emma pretends to press the button that calls for the nurse. “Hang on, I think I need a horse tranquilizer’s worth of morphine for this conversation to continue.”

“We don’t have to --”

“No, no. It’s okay.” Emma lets herself take Regina’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Seriously, Regina. Despite evidence to the contrary, I am an adult. I can have this talk, and I think we need to have this talk. And even if that’s just that the pain meds have the side effect of maturing my immature ass, well, hey. Good for us.”

Regina looks at Emma like she might float away if she doesn’t keep her hand firmly in hers. “Okay,” she says quietly, carefully, in a voice that is not terribly Regina-like. If this really is the meds and the headache and all the soreness, Emma can’t tell, but it almost scares her, to see how much she managed to scare this one person.

“So.”

Regina takes a deep breath. “So.”

“I guess I’ll just...get this out of the way. I haven’t talked about this because I don’t like talking about things I already know the answer to. I already know that you shouldn’t marry me. I haven’t really seen myself as someone who, uh...gets married. Or really settles down, period. I’m not terribly good marriage material? Like, I am not the kinda gal anyone wants their daughter to tie her wagon to, right? If that makes sense.”

Regina seems to struggle not to raise an eyebrow. “That’s not true.”

“I mean, you heard Zazu. I don’t have a real job. I don’t have these huge goals, I don’t have an education, I’m like, the _last_ possible person you would expect to be dating the all-important mayor of the biggest city in the Northeast.” She sighs in spite of herself. “I made sense as your nanny. I don’t think I’d make sense as your wife.”

Regina doesn’t say anything for a moment. Emma doesn’t really blame her. After all, this is the same woman who used to show up five minutes early to every single class and maintain a perfect hairstyle for the entire hour, the same woman who singlehandedly took on a conservative majority of bloodthirsty legislators, the same woman who still won’t cry in front of anyone.

This is the same woman who is crying in front of Emma right now.

“Shit,” Emma says, straining to reach her from where her casts keep her pinned down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you cry.”

“Do I make you feel like that?” Regina asks. “When I look at you, I see the most important...the most amazing person I’ve ever met. Do I not show you that enough?”

Emma blinks. Her mouth is very dry. Maybe it’s the meds, but it probably isn’t. It’s probably, it’s probably...it’s probably the way Regina’s looking at her, that brightness in her eyes. “What?”

“I’ve never brought up marriage because, well, I didn’t think you’d ever want to marry me. I mean, really, Emma. You could have anyone... _anyone_ in the world. And I’m an entire air fleet of baggage, I’m a single mother--”

“Okay, you know I’m basically obsessed with Henry.”

“-- I’ve been called high maintenance, I know that’s true about me --”

“I won’t...explicitly argue with that, no.”

“--and apparently I don’t make you feel like you’re enough. When all this time, all I’ve ever thought is well, it’s a matter of time before she figures out how much better she could be doing. She’d never want to make this permanent. I thought if I brought it up, you’d just...come to your senses and...I don’t know, disappear.”

“Do you want to get married?”

“What?”

“I mean, do you want to get married? You, me, rings and legal documents and all that.”

Regina blinks. “Right...now?”

“I mean, obviously not right now. I refuse to be married while wearing an assless shift.” Emma waves the stubs of her wrapped limbs to the extent that they can be waved. “Also, I would need a giant-ass ring to fit around this cast.” She smiles. “But yeah, someday. Do you want to get married?”

“To you?”

“No, to the guy who hit me with his car.” Emma smirks. “Yes, to me, silly. I’m not saying, like, any time particularly soon. You should probably get all the mayor stuff in hand. I should probably get a better job. But when we’ve done a few more things, then maybe we should think about it.”

“Okay,” Regina says, and she’s got one of those smiles on that looks like it could break somebody in two if they ever got in the way of that reflection. “Yes. Yes, I would really like that.”

“Great,” Emma says, giving her cast one last wave. “That’s decided, then.”

Regina sniffs, wiping at her eyes and laughing. “ _Coño_ , we really couldn’t get through this conversation without someone crying, could we?”

Emma sighs. “We are so gay.”

“Shamefully so, yes.”

“Not to change the subject, but since I anticipate you nursing me back to health for the next couple of weeks, any chance we could get you a hot nurse’s outfit?”

Regina shoots her a look. “Unless you mean a pair of shapeless scrubs, absolutely not.”

“I _really_ think it will help speed up my recovery.”

“I guess you’ll have to suffer through the pain at a normal rate.”

“What if I got a doctor’s note?”

Regina snorts. “Right. In the virtually impossible case that you got a doctor’s note recommending I buy a skimpy nurse’s outfit, I will do it. But we both know that’s not happening.”

 

 

 

 

The morning of her release, and Emma’s hobbling on crutches over to the nurses’ station on her floor.

“Looking good, Miss Swan!” says Armoire, Emma’s favorite nurse. “Next thing you know, you’ll be running a marathon.”

“Only if you’re at the finish line in a bikini, Armoire.”

Armoire swats her on the arm with a file. “That’s enough of that, you.”

Emma winks. “Out of curiosity, where is Dr. Cogsworth today?” 

“Why, what do you need?”

“I need a doctor’s note.”

Armoire raises an eyebrow. “He’s already written you everything you need for your employer.”

Emma attempts her most convincing smile. “This is for another employer. It’s for a very _specific_ task.”

“There he is now. “ Armoire nods down the hall, Emma already taking off towards the doctor.

Dr. Cogsworth gives Emma a one-over as she hobbles at an increasingly fast pace in his direction. “Miss Swan,” he says, tucking a folder under his arm. “You are making me very nervous on those crutches.”

“Coggles, my friend, I have a favor to ask.”

“Isn’t healing you from a horrible injury enough of a favor?”

“I need you to write me a doctor’s note.”

“I’ve already written you all the notes you need.”

“This is a special note. It’s a bit unorthodox.”

Dr. Cogsworth gives her a very skeptical frown. “Miss Swan--”

“Did I or did I not open that jar of pickles for you when no one else on the floor could?”

Dr. Cogsworth thinks about this for a minute, and then sighs. He gets out his pen. “Fine. What should it say?”

“I’ll dictate it for you.” Emma says, and grins like a slightly immobilized kid in a candy store.

 

 

 

 


	22. in which emma swan comes full circle

 

 

 

 

She was not supposed to be a nanny, or a babysitter, or a person put in charge of children at all. She was not supposed to fall in love with the mayor of Brooke City, or find a fifth grade partner in crime, or get the happy ending. That was never part of Emma Swan’s plan. Not that plans have ever been her strong suit.

 

 

 

 

Exhibit A: The elaborate series of comic adventures that Henry has been illustrating on Emma’s cast. 

Getting hit by a car? That’s something that younger Emma might have anticipated. If it would have been mentioned to her as a teen, even in a casual ‘Ten years from now you’ll be hit by a car, so, uh, have fun with that” way, she’d probably shrug and nod and go back to whatever mild juvenile delinquencies were on the agenda for the day. It sounded like an Emma thing. Car accidents, car chases, the occasional car jacking. That was an Emma thing. 

Not being nursed back to health in the wake of a car accident by someone whose smiles make Emma feel like the whole world’s on the edge of busting open. Not having her cast used by a newly confident (but still adorably scrawny) kid as the canvas for his superhero narrative. Those were not supposed to be Emma things.

“This one is based on you,” Henry says, screwing up his face when he starts coloring in the figure with his marker. He taps on the cast where a blonde...stick figure...is posing with a sword. “That’s her sword. She jumps between universes and has to save all the different worlds from their problems. She’s like a superhero but also a fantasy hero, too. And she has a hard time because she’s not sure if she really wants to be the hero.” 

“I see she has my impressive arms and my complex facial structure.” Emma is on the couch, stretched out and commanded to remain completely still by the master at work.

Henry sticks his tongue at her. “This is just a rough draft, Emma.”

“And it had to be on my cast. You know I’ve only got this one left, right? This must be a pretty short adventure for Not-Emma.”

He taps on her cast with his marker. “It’s an excerpt. A lot of artists believe that the body is the most pure canvas, so I’m just--”

“Calm down, Junior Art Historian. I didn’t say you couldn’t.” She smirks, making a show of how very immobile she is. “I just feel like I’m going to need a lot of ibuprofen to get through this session.”

“Is this what getting a tattoo is like?”

“Exactly like getting a tattoo, yep.”

“Awesome,” Henry says, scribbling away. “I’m going to get like twenty of them!”

“Nope, _nope_ ,” Emma backtracks. “That was a fib! Tattoos are extremely painful and give you cooties, stay away from tattoos.”

Henry makes a face identical to his mother’s, the one Regina makes when she does not completely tolerate Emma’s bologna. “ _You_ have a tattoo.”

“And I have cooties.”

Henry’s eyes narrow, even as he concentrates very hard on the stick figure now brandishing a dagger. “Does that mean my mom has cooties?”

Emma has to stop herself from snorting. “Yes, she does. I’m just realizing that when the day comes and we need to have a special talk with you, these concepts are going to be so much easier for you to grasp.”

“What do I have exactly?” Regina appears in the doorway, her amused smile getting even bigger and cuter and more amused when she sees what Henry’s doing. God, Emma would climb a mountain naked but for flip-flops just to see that smile. 

“Cooties,” Henry reports matter-of-factly. He takes a moment to admire his work, seeming to approve of his creation thus far. “Mom, this hero is based on you.”

Regina takes a closer look before going into full proud mama bear mode. “That’s incredible, Enrique. Am I shooting fireballs from my hands?”

“Yes!” He nods furiously. “You _got_ it. See, Emma didn’t really get it at first, but you figured it out right away.”

“Well, Emma has horrible taste, dear, so don’t take it personally.” Regina gives Emma the flicker of a mischievous smirk, that one where her teeth graze her bottom lip. Despite Emma currently hosting an entire children’s comic on her person at this time, she so totally would. “It looks like my character and Emma’s character don’t get along.”

“Well, you start out enemies, but in the end you team up because it turns out you are the only two people who can save the world.” He looks between them, smiling like a kid on Christmas. “Also you secretly like each other.”

“That doesn’t sound accurate,” Emma says. “I can’t stand your mother.”

“And I find you completely unbearable.” Regina leans over the side of the couch, planting a kiss on the patient’s forehead. “Why we’ve allowed you to stay in this house for so long is beyond me.”

Emma grins. “I have my uses.”

“Ugh,” Henry waves at them both from over his shoulder, back to being consumed in his work. “You’re grossing out the artist.”

“Okay, Henrietta da Vinci.” Emma stretches her arm out, showing her very serious commitment to remaining still for him. “I suppose if I’m going to be your Mona Lisa, I should just accept the honor.”

“You’d better,” Henry says, and wow, doesn’t that little face manage to scrunch up into a perfect imitation of his mother’s scary ‘enough with this shit, Emma’ expression. “This is to be my finest work.”

“Is your finest work going to get a cut of the profits?”

“She can get a slice of pie if she’s good.” Regina gives them both a kiss on the head, heading to the kitchen.

“It specifically says in my contract that I no longer work for pie--”

But she can’t help grinning. This is an Emma thing now.

 

 

 

 

Exhibit B: The photo of her and Regina kissing in the car that ends up all over the blogosphere.

First of all, she fucking hates the word blogosphere. Who gets paid to come up with these bullshit words? Just say blogs. You know, the plural for blog. Emma has no time for someone who unironically uses the word blogosphere in their gossip column about girl politicians who date other girls. 

“It’s really ended up everywhere,” Zazu says, that look that could be positively pickled or positively tickled or positively pleased with himself because he secretly orchestrated the whole thing. Emma never knows. “It went positively viral, as the children say.”

“We understand that, Zazu.” Regina is slicing her brunch as if dissecting a murder victim. “But how do we make it go away?”

Emma groans, only to glance one table over and see the same photo on the front of the paper. “Excuse me,” she says, and the bearded and waxed-mustache man looks up from his breakfast and news, seemingly befuddled. He glances from the front page to Emma and back to the front page before taking out his phone and snapping a picture of the two of them.

Regina blinks. “Did he seriously just--”

“ _Hey_ ,” Emma starts, instinctively snatching for the phone. He pulls away, making a face. “Jeremiah or Ezra or whatever the fuck your name is, that’s really rude. I’m sure your bandmates in whatever folk-revival ‘ho-heying’ ensemble you play the fucking xylophone in would agree with me. Be an adult, asshole.”

“It’s a free country,” he objects. Zazu’s eyebrows have now been raised sky high, and he shoots a look across the table at Regina. Regina continues to eat her breakfast, unaffected, as if she is more than happy to let her dog run off the leash. 

“Actually, it’s a surveillance state, and even if you upload that to your 37 instagram followers, someone else is going to see it and post it to their 220 instagram followers and the chain will go on and on, because yes, Hunter or Cooper or whatever old-timey occupation you were named for, your actions have consequences.”

“Miss Swan,” Zazu hisses.

“She’s getting out some frustration,” Regina says, chewing happily on her bacon. “It’s healthy for her. It’s not about the invasive hipster, Zazu. It’s just because she hasn’t been working out as often so she has to work out her tension in other ways.”

Officially silenced by the mayor herself, Zazu looks on, his eye twitching. Emma goes in on the man’s beard wax next.

 

 

 

 

Exhibit C: Sitting on Regina’s bed, watching her pace from one side of the room to the other. Being so present in this woman’s life that she’s seen door after door unlocked, watched one palm opened after the other until they’ve both bared things they didn’t expect. Watching the fear fall away until it just _makes sense_ , sitting on this woman’s bed at 2 in the morning, being the person she trusts most to talk about...this.

“I just don’t want to walk away from this and decide later that it’s something I somehow...failed.” Regina’s in her slip, hand in her hair. “I can’t tell anymore what’s my dream and what isn’t. What’s his, or my mother’s, or whatever it was my father thought he could make out of me.”

“Can I be candid?”

Regina stops pacing for a moment, that sudden crooked little smile. Her nervous smile. “You always are.” 

“Fuck what everyone else thinks. You can say a lot about my life, mostly that I’ve almost been a criminal and definitely been a fuckup and really, _really_ made some questionable choices, but even when I’m stepping right into the worst of the mess, I do it without having to worry what someone else is going to think about it. You can’t care about what they think. It’s not their life. It’s not even partly my life. It’s _your_ life. It’s your happiness, Regina.”

Regina sits at the edge of the bed, both hands kneading her hair now (a habit Emma has gotten used to in the other woman when she’s being vulnerable, a habit Emma sees more and more). “I’ve built a huge part of who I am on this. On doing things when people said I couldn’t. On running a city that entire newspapers decided I didn’t deserve to run. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been fighting for things not because I wanted them, but because someone didn’t want me to have them. When you live like that, you forget why you started in the first place.”

“But you’ve always been in politics, haven’t you?”

“My mother enlisted me in the Daughters of the American Revolution when I was 16. She had me volunteering and speech-giving and sitting on charity luncheons in every senator’s wife’s dining room in New England.” Regina laughs. “I said, Mama, we weren’t in the American Revolution. My father’s people were on an island, and the Spanish were still cutting off our hands for not sharing the gold. She told me, sometimes it is easier to split yourself into parts, and pretend you are one piece at a time. She said it hurt less that way.” Regina’s hands are in her lap, clasped together. Emma watches as one of them forms into a quiet fist. “I didn’t want to be like that. I’ve found nothing good comes from breaking yourself apart.”

Emma wants to lean across, to take her hand or touch her shoulder or anything like that, form some kind of contact, but she waits. She’s learned with Regina, so she waits.

“I don’t want to be a senator, Emma. I like...leading people.” She smiles again, seemingly to herself. “I like being in charge, yes, but I don’t want these titles that come with it. I think that’s always been my mother’s interest in the race. She remembers what it was like when my father would run for reelection. I think she used to enjoy it more than he did, being the senator’s wife. She and Zazu have been planning this since I ran for my first campaign. She wants to be the senator’s mother. Zazu wants to put someone different in the White House.”

“The White House?” Emma can’t help but laugh a little at that. “Okay, not saying you couldn’t be president, because you obviously could, but holy _shit_ , can you imagine me as a First Lady?”

“Oh, there is no chance of me becoming president, even if I wanted it. They are never electing a Latina with a wife. I think it’s the challenge that speaks to Zazu, not the reality. He loves the impossible. It was impossible for me to become the mayor of the wealthiest city in the United States. He did it.”

“You did it, too.”

“Yes,” Regina says, and she falls back into the bed, landing just beside Emma. “And I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“You could come be a personal trainer with me,” Emma says, and then snorts at Regina’s look. “I’m kidding, don’t worry. You are skilled as fuck, but no one would sign up for that class. I think they’d rather go flagellate in a cell somewhere than deal with your version of coaching.”

Regina rolls her eyes, smirking. “I’m a leader, not a preschool teacher.” 

“If you’re implying that I treat my students like toddlers, you’re not half off.” Emma takes a deep breath, turning to face Regina. Elbow to elbow on top of the covers, close enough to feel the warmth of her, and she’d give anything to stay like this forever. “You know I’ll support you no matter what you do. You want to go be a high-powered politician somewhere that no one knows your name, we can do it. You have a law degree, right? We can Good Wife that shit and you can start a firm. You want to run a donut shop or be a cucumber farmer, I’m also okay with that. I’m gonna be here with you, whatever it is you want here to be.”

Regina smiles, that smile that just about dissolves Emma’s insides, and touches Emma’s face. “I love you,” she says, quietly, firmly.

“I know,” Emma says. “I don’t take that lightly. I’m here for the long run.”

Regina leans in, noses brushing. “I’m stuck with you, huh?” 

“The unfortunate side effect of me being in love with you, yeah. Perks include fantastic sex and unconditional support, downers include having to deal with my ridiculous ass for the rest of known existence.” 

“That’s hardly a negative point.”

“The eye of the beholder, I guess.” Emma takes another breath, and it’s the air between them, something that isn’t lost on her. “I’m serious, you know. Whatever you want, I’m here for you. I never wanted to date the mayor or a senator or some fancy important person. I would have gladly dated Regina Mills the waitress.”

“You would have picked me up with some horrible line written next to the tip, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.” 

“And I would have grown a soft spot for you, and let you have an extra waffle for free.”

“Definitely. And you’d slide the strawberry syrup down the counter to me, and pretend like you were so totally not interested in me, but when you’d turn back to the orders, you’d smile to yourself. Because I’m so damn cute.”

Regina sighs, kisses her. “Yes, you are.”

 

 

 

 

Exhibit D: Zazu finally breaking his cool.

“Emma darling, surely you can talk to her and--”

“It’s her decision, not mine.” Emma shakes her head, half in amusement. Not that he can see her on this end of the phone, but she’d pay about a million dollars to bear witness to his face right now. “I mean, honestly, you and I both know that she wouldn’t even listen to me at this point. She’s made up her mind. Everyone else has to sit back and respect it.” 

A harried sigh on the other end. “You love her, as do I. As do we all. And we know what’s best for her, even when she can’t see it.”

“Actually, she’s the only one who knows what’s best for her. What’s best for her is finishing her term and not running for senator. That’s what she wants.”

“Miss Swan, _querida_ , you and I both--”

“Nah, we don’t really ‘both’ anything.” Emma glances into the kitchen, where Henry is stirring chocolate milk into the glass of his guest. “I’ve actually got to go. Young love is budding and I need to go make sure I can accurately recount it to Regina when she gets home. You stay calm, Zazu. Maybe hit up the spa or something. I’m sure it’s in the mayor’s budget.”

And she hangs up on him, which is rude, but hey. Some old Emma Swan habits die hard.

“Who was that?” Henry asks when she steps into the kitchen, surveying the scene.

“No one important. Certainly not as important as our illustrious guest. Are you going to introduce me?”

“Oh,” Henry says, instantly blushing. “Um, well.” The girl sitting next to him, pink bow and a huge flush of freckles across her dark cheeks, grins, holding out her hand. It looks like she’s going to do the introducing for him. 

“I’m Marie,” she says, pumping Emma’s hand enthusiastically. “We’re neighbors.”

“I’m aware,” Emma says, giving the girl a smirk. “Are you as much of a chocolate milk fan as Enrique?”

“Sure,” Marie says, and Henry slides over her glass. “We like all the same stuff.”

“That’s cool, Marie. Very cool.” Emma gestures at Henry so they can complete their secret handshake under the counter. “Henrietta, can I get one of those chocolate milks?”

Marie laughs. “Grown-ups don’t like chocolate milk.”

“Emma isn’t like most grown-ups.” Henry says matter-of-factly, grinning proudly between the two of them. “She’s my cool ma. Not that my other mom isn’t cool, but Emma’s more like a kid level of cool.”

 

 

 

 

And that’s how Emma Swan becomes Henry Mills’ ‘cool’ ma.

 

 

 

 


	23. epilogue: in which we all get a happy ending scene before the credits play

 

 

 

 

Four years and eleven months later, in a pictureque New England town called Storyville...

 

 

 

 

“Okay, everyone. Smile and say cheese.”

“What _kind_ of cheese?”

“Don’t be a smartass, Henrietta.” 

But at 15 years old and 5 feet 11 inches, the gangly giant that once was stringbean Enrique just rolls his eyes and grins for the camera. He’s in a tuxedo that is not quite as unstylish as he used to be - though some things never change, Emma thinks, noting the peach silk bowtie and matching pocket square. Regina picked those out so they’d match Marie’s gown. That was something considered a “Mom job”. Mom jobs in preparation for the prom were making sure Henry didn’t look like a hobo and coordinating the corsages. “Ma jobs” were passing on her ultra cool dance moves and securing a sweet ride.

Which she’s definitely done on both counts. Henry’s going to be able to put his thing down, flip it, and reverse it like no other. 

“Okay, a couple more pictures. I want all your best angles.”

“ _Ma_ ,” Henry groans. “I’m gonna have to go to the prom at my nursing home by the time you’re done.”

“Marie, feel free to not dance with him when he gets sassy tonight.”

“You got it, Ms. Swan,” Marie says, giving Henry a playful swat. “I’m used to it by now.”

“Well darlin’, you agreed to be best friends with someone who had perfected the eyeroll even when he was just a wee little preteen. I’ve got a photo around here somewhere--”

“ _Ma!_ ” Henry looks like he’s about to tear his hair out. Emma tuts him, winking.

“Fine, fine. Let’s get the supermodels out the door. Okay, on the count of three, make your nice well-adjusted teenager faces.”

Henry and Marie smile like they’re staring into headlights.

“Okay, this time, look like you didn’t make it out of the zombie apocalypse without turning.”

They both do their best undead impression.

“Okay, back to back, let me see your spy pose. Take this as seriously as possible.”

Henry is impressively good at his Bond, turns out. Must be she passed on some of that suave after all.

Marie’s adjusting her bangs post-photo. “Henry, do you want one with your family?” 

“If they promise to smile and not give me bunny ears,” Henry says, making a face at Emma.

“Cross my heart, I promise to never photobomb again.” Emma swears, hand on heart. She hands the camera to Marie, ushering her away from the mantle that was serving as the background. “Henry, go get the rest of the team from the kitchen, will you?” Emma turns to Marie. “Any last minute questions, kiddo? You guys have my cell if you get there and everyone’s doing drugs or having a teenage orgy, right?”

“I think we’ll be fine.” Marie shrugs, smirking. “Henry says you taught him how to dance like a background dancer in a Naughty By Nature video, so I’m looking forward to that. But really, Ms. Swan, you know me and Henry. We’re pretty much nerds.”

“You know, a smaller and higher-voiced Henry once told me that nerds were in.” 

“The gang’s all here,” Henry announces, returning with the rest of the family in tow. “Abuela, you can stand next to me.”

Cora’s patting at her unquestionably perfect coif, somehow dressed for the occasion. “ _Querida_ , I hardly look ready for this photo,” she says, looking almost too ready for this photo.

Regina gives Emma a secret rolling of the eyes, squeezing in next to her. She’s got Gabriela in her arms, the reason she and Cora were in the kitchen. Where earlier, Gabriela had been wearing the striped onesie with plaid booties that Emma had initially dressed her in that morning - “Important lesson, Gab - wearing non-matching patterns is punk and very cool. You will get way more chicks that way. Or guys, or both. Whatever you end up wanting to date when you are 35. Which is when your mom and I will allow you to start dating, of course.” - and is now wearing a little peach dress to match her brother’s bowtie.

“I see that Gab’s gotten a makeover,” Emma whispers, giving her daughter a quick kiss on the forehead. 

“Did you tell Gabriela that aggressively conflicting patterns are cute?”

“What, how did you...she can’t even _talk_ yet.” Emma looks at her daughter, shocked. “Gab, did you _snitch_ on me with your _eyes_?”

Regina winks, smug little smile. “I had a feeling.” She puts an arm through Emma’s, her finger still in Gab’s very strong little fist. “You’re the one who bought her the baby-sized leather jacket.”

“She might not be able to use words yet, but I’ll be damned if the other babies on the block don’t think she’s in a motorcycle gang. Any babies come up in here trying to make trouble, and they know who the baby boss in these parts is.”

Gabriela gurgles approvingly in response to her Ma’s plan. Regina gives Emma a look, but the thing about having an adorable baby on your side -- “Even if your birth did give me nightmares after seeing what your Mom’s downstairs is capable of doing, and I love you Gab, but for real, if I knew that your Mom’s business could swallow my head whole, like, _wow_...anyway, hold still, gal, that diaper is not on yet” -- is that you really can’t lose.

“That’s ridiculous,” Regina says, but she can’t really be mad, not when Gab is backing her Ma up. Someday Emma is gonna teach that kid to fist bump and then make the trembling bottom lip face, just like her big brother, and they’re going to be unstoppable. 

“You of all people should know about these baby gangs, Regina. You may not be the mayor of a big city anymore, but as the mayor of the village, you know first hand that infant crime is no joke.”

Regina aims an elbow into Emma’s side, careful to be gentle enough not to adjust the baby in her arms. “If I walk into the living room one day and there’s a group of babies wearing matching leather jackets and you’re sitting there, pleased as punch--”

“If you ladies are done,” Cora hisses, adjusting one of her Chanel earrings. “Maybe we could take a nice family photo.”

“Is everybody ready?” Marie gestures from behind the camera. “Everyone say ‘My family!”

And all together, like one big happy family, they say “ _Mi familia!_.”

 

 

 

 

In the photo that results of this moment:

Cora Mills, dressed from head to toe in Chanel and Balenciaga, is smirking above her pearls. She has one hand placed on the arm of her grandson, one half of her current two sources of pride and joy. She will blow up a massive copy of this photograph, and have it professional mounted in an ornate gold frame above her fireplace at home in the suburbs of Brooke City. Regina will secretly find it tacky, but not say anything, as she really needs the babysitting. 

Henry Mills is smiling his biggest, goofiest smile. His peach bowtie is only slightly askew. His glance is directed towards his little sister, as the sudden excitement of the whole family chanting the same words at the same time has her squealing and reaching for him. He will bring a copy of this photo to his college dorm in a few years, and keep it on his desk. He will eventually learn how to talk to girls, helped with the occasional panicked 1 am text to his Ma. He will never stop loving Beyonce. 

Gabriela Swan-Mills has one hand reaching for her brother, and one hand around her Mom’s finger. The flash of the camera creates the perfect illusion of a halo, probably caused by her tiny gold earrings. Her peach dress is spotless at this time, but will be ruined an hour later when she and Emma decide to fingerpaint on the kitchen floor. Gab, an innovator and out-of-the-box thinker like her Ma, will use her whole body to create her art. Her first word will be ‘MaMom,’ which Emma and Regina consider a tie. When Gab is in the sixth grade, her godmother Ruby will help dye her hair pink and buy Gab her first electric bass. While she never officially joins a baby gang, she does form an all-girls punk band, whose music Regina pretends to enjoy for her daughter’s sake.

Regina Mills is holding her infant daughter, smiling at the camera. As with most of Regina’s expressions, the true meaning is a mystery to all but a select few, as she could either be charmed by the situation, or about to say something slightly sassy. She is leaning in towards her wife, who she married in a private ceremony in the backyard of their new home in Storyville. No paparazzi were present. Instead of a honeymoon, they opted for a camping trip with Henry, but there was a secret post-ceremony detour to a suspiciously seedy bar with a karaoke night. Rumor has it that the woman who would run for mayor of their quiet little town and win in a perfectly happy and friendly election, sang a stirring rendition of Celine Dion’s “The Power of Love”.

Emma Swan, resident of bucolic, tree-lined Storyville, is grinning triumphantly. Her business card now names her as owner of the Swan Studio for Martial Arts. She keeps that business card in her wallet, along with this photo. Because Emma Swan, once a self-defense instructor, nanny, secret lover, not-so-secret lover, and lately business owner, wife, and ma, has a pretty kickass family. She’ll be damned if she won’t whip that shit out and brag like a maniac at any given opportunity.

Oh, and Ruby has a copy of this photo as well. She photoshopped herself into the side of the picture, posing as if on the cover of a 90s hardcore rap album. She also added some flames to the border, and a mustache on Emma. Ruby also keeps this photo in her wallet. She is still single, if anyone is interested.

 

 

 

 


End file.
